


One Fool’s Heart

by philliam



Series: The Fools' Journey to Happiness [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Kurusu Akira, Consensual Underage Romance, F/F, F/M, Humor, If You Squint - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Persona 5 Spoilers, Reader is a 23y old student, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Swearing, Unreliable Narrator, introducing a new arcana for plot's sake, unreal depictions of psychologists & psychiatrists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philliam/pseuds/philliam
Summary: All you wanted was a nice part time job to scrape by. But if you had known how much of a smug sass-master Akira Kurusu turned out to be, you’d have thought twice about agreeing tutoring him.





	1. [Rank 1]

_when i first saw you_  
_the end was soon_  
_to bethlehem it slouched and then,_  
_it must’ve caught a good look at you_

— hozier; nfwmb

 

 

 

     The small room reeks of wet fabric and mould.

     The steady rumble of the washing machine puts you in a lazy, tired state; the words on the page in front of you merge into a blurry line, the letters shifting and eating each other. Squeezing a study session between your last class and the shitty part-time job at the Wilton Hotel buffet as a way of killing time until your laundry’s ready wasn’t one of your brightest ideas, but it’s the only open window to catch up with a much needed study session.

     You’d probably execute it a lot better, were it not for the dim light in the room withholding any possibility to actually _see_ what’s in front of you, and the sound of buzzing cicadas drilling into your head and stopping you from thinking. Everything would be a lot easier if you could do your laundry in your dormitory, but well … you don't feel necessarily responsible for contacting the janitor each time they break.

     It’s past 10pm. The small, red numbers on the washer tell you with very lacking interest there are still 13 minutes left before you can buzz off. The night is calm, somewhere outside a cat hisses, and despite it all, you feel strangely at peace. Maybe it's because you’re alone and no one’s talking. Maybe it's because it’s the first time today you can sit and think about _nothing_ at all. Someone tugged your brain into a cozy blanket and accidentally left it there even though there’s all kinds of stuff you should rather focus on. “Well, a break is important,” no one says, because actually, you really can’t afford it, so you slap your brain awake and look back at the page, only to have your eyes fix midway on something else in front of you.

     In the doorway of the tiny, cramped Laundromat is a tall guy standing, a wash basket in his arms. Behind round glasses, dark eyes scan the room for a free machine, before they land on you, and he just remains there for a moment as if he needs your permission to enter. You give him a lazy wave, and eventually his legs move and he decides to take the machine farthest away from you, loading it with wrinkled clothes. “Stupid dormitory washers, right? You see the janitor all the time on his break, but when does he actually fix something,” you open the conversation, happy to have something to distract your mind after unsuccessfully convincing yourself to continue studying. He throws a quick glance your way, then nods.

     Settling back, your eyes scan the page and the yellow marked sentences, but they don’t make any sense to you. _Cognitive processes involved in the updating of current task goals, in their shielding against irrelevant information and action tendencies, and in the dynamic switching between goals or foci of attention*_ … Sure. Whatever. You yield, snap the magazine shut and shift your focus back on the guy. He’s lanky with slumped shoulders (it’s such a bad posture you can feel your grandma— may her not so gentle soul rest in peace, claw at her grave to get out and smack him over the head), and a mop of curly, black hair that’s probably never made acquaintance with a comb. Judging from how he avoids looking at you, he seems like the shy, nerdy type unable to start a conversation with a girl because all he knows are the 2D models of young, pretty girls in his video games. At least he washes his own clothes and doesn’t live with his mom. Or maybe he does and he’s just starting to look after himself. You stop with your shameless prejudices as he finally manages to look up at you, considering you with reserved but palpable interest until his eyes fall on the magazine on your lap.

     You wave it in his direction like a leaflet. “Really boring, if you ask me. But our professor swears the _Advances in Cognitive Psychology_ has the best articles in the field.”

     He keeps staring at you, and you realize he’s probably giving two shits about whatever you were reading.

     “You’re a first year?” you ask, shifting the conversation back to him, because people like to talk about themselves. “I promise, college doesn’t suck later as much as at the beginning.” What a blatant lie, shame on you, your family and your non-existent cow.

     He hesitates, then nods. “Is it interesting?” he asks, and your first instinct is to say, “So you _can_ speak,” but instead you just shrug. If he wants to play a game of back-and-forth, then you accept the challenge. “Sort of. If you’re into that stuff.”

     He hums approvingly like it’s self-evident, then leans his slim hips against one of the dryers. “So you’re a psychology student?”

     “Look at you, Sherlock.” You smile at him. “Guilty as charged. What about you?”

     “Law,” he immediately replies, and you try not to show the surprise on your face because you definitely expected something like game design or IT.

     “Cool,” you say, because that’s what one is supposed to say about any major people even when it isn’t. Not that law isn’t cool. It’s just … it isn’t something you want to dwell on. “Then I guess I’ll see you either on the street, Mr. Police Officer, or in the courtroom. Hopefully not because I’m the one charged, but…” You gesture with your hand like that might actually help. “You know.”

     He nods, though you’re pretty sure he doesn’t, because even you don’t know what the hell you’re saying (who’s the one unable to hold conversations now, huh).

     Luckily, the soft beeping of your washer signals that you can unload your laundry and go. You smack the magazine on top of your wet clothes and heave the basket up. Unable to wave him, you just awkwardly nod and make your way past the law student. “Well, maybe we’ll see each other around,” you say but you’re pretty sure you won’t because you a) don’t know where he studies, and b) don’t know him.

     But he goes along, and nods, hands tugged deep inside the pockets of his black jeans. “Maybe.”

 

 ___________________________________________

 

     The clinking of cutlery and chatter around you cuts through your napping plans, which aren't even well-conceived in the first place (really, sleeping in the canteen is a dumb idea, don’t do it), so you have to settle for the worst doze in the history of mankind. With your head on the table and eyes closed, you pick up a few conversations varying from gossip about professors, complaints about classes and work, and worst of all: desperate tries to have intellectual and mind blowing discussions no one _really_ cares about. That's college for you.

     Suddenly, there’s a _thud_ and the table shakes after someone walks into it. You flinch, your head snaps up at the soft “Fuck”, and you watch Yuu Narukami limp to the chair opposite from you, slumping into the seat. He has probably just finished a class and was heading to the next when he saw your pathetic form. There’s no tray with him, only a steaming cup of coffee you know he’s able to down in one go because Narukami is a crazy man.

     “I am so done with this week,” you say instead of greeting him properly.

     Narukami blows into his cup. “It’s only Monday.”

     “Exactly.”

     He gives you a weary smile, but doesn’t comment further on it because he’s an actual angel who endures all your whining, and that makes him easily one of your top three greatest friends of all time, right next to your grandma and rice cooker.

     “You wanna head over to Jinbocho this weekend?” you ask, turning your head so you’re resting on your chin, ignoring the awful pain in your back but you really can’t bring up the energy to sit properly. “There this reading our professor wants us to attend, and I really can’t endure that all by myself.”

     Narukami thinks about it, sipping on his coffee. He picks his phone out of his pockets and tabs through it, eyebrows drawing together. “I’m heading back to Inaba for this weekend,” he says. “Sorry.”

     “Ohhh, seeing someone?” You ask, wiggling your eyebrows.

     He gives you one of his silent smiles, and somehow Narukami’s always been good at making them louder than words. A sigh wedges between your lips, a weekend off away from the city sounds so great but is unfortunately  unaffordable, so you don’t even start imagining it.

     “All right, all right. But you can bet I’ll spam you once I’m bored,” you warn him. Narukami nods, and maybe that’s the worst thing, that you know he’ll spend time with someone, and you’ll _still_ annoy him because you _know_ he’s too kind to not respond to your texts. Maybe it would be easier to meet up with some of your classmates and end the day getting wasted in one of the student’s pubs. As if you needed another reason to drown in alcohol with all the bills and essays coming up.

     Eventually, Narukami gets on his feet and glances at his watch. He picks some leftover food from your tray and pulls at some of your strands in way of saying _See ya_ (it’s staggering how much of older-brother material he is, and it never fails to tug at certain strings in your heart you thought you’ve cut off long ago). But he manages just a few steps before he U-turns and stops right next to you.

     “By the way, I saw this and thought you might be interested.” Narukami picks a folded paper out of his back and puts it on your head, the world’s worst waterproof roof, ignoring your protest. “It can’t be worse than your current job, so hurry, or someone else will take it.” Narukami gives you a lazy wave, then disappears. You really can’t stand to hunt down another underpaid, exhausting job, but persuade yourself to do him the favour, suffer through it, and then burn it and use it to light a cigarette.

     You pull the paper from your head, unfolding it and read the tiny, curvy writing.

 

 

 

 

> _2nd year high school student looking for a home tutor in following subjects:_
> 
>           • _Math_  
>            • _Social studies  
>            _ • _Contemporary Japanese and English Literature_

 

     But then comes the last line and you nearly choke on your spit. _Meeting twice a week, cash (7,000 yen) on hand after each session. If interested, please contact 090-xxxx-xxx._

     The payment is like a neon sign drilling into your eyes. “What the fuck,” you whisper, quickly calculating how much you’ll make by the end of the month and it’s so much more than with your current shitty part-time job. You quickly pull out your phone, ignore the dozen texts from a few classmates, two from your mother, and seven from your floor neighbour living opposite from you (though you’re pretty sure the last just completely consists of cowboy emojis because Iori is a guy like that).

     You quickly type an introduction and ask for a day to meet. The chance of nailing such an amazing job fuels you with energy you thought was long gone just like your motivation to care for a healthy diet. After cleaning your tray away and getting into line for some much deserved coffee, your phone vibrates in your pocket and you hurry to get it in your hands, ignoring the others in line complaining about your elbows almost clocking them.

 

 

 

 

> **[unknown number]:** _Hello, nice to meet you. If it’s possible, can you please come this evening?_

 

     Now, that’s what you call polite. 2nd year high school students should be around 16 or 17 years, and you know all too well how much of shitheads those teenagers can be. Apparently, you’ve really hit the jackpot.

 

 

 

 

> **[you]:** _Hi! Sure, I can come around 7pm! Let’s meet somewhere public, there’s no need for me to enter your home if it doesn’t work out, plus it will save your parents from worrying about someone knowing your address. I’ll bring bring some quizzes with me to see what you can already do and where you need help._
> 
> **[unknown number]:** _Okay, thank you very much. Please come to the cafe Leblanc in Yongen-Jaya. The owner will know._

     You pause and wonder. The cafe is foreign to you, but it’s such a big coincidence the student lives in the same district as you. Well, actually you consider yourself lucky, it’ll definitely save you travel time, and with a positive outlook like that you easily manage through the last three hours of classes.

 

___________________________________________

 

     Finding Leblanc wasn’t as easy as you'd expected. At first, you walked twice past it, not even paying attention to the dimly lit, small shop tugged between two large, grey buildings, and then you weren’t even sure if this was the right place. Then again, after asking Google you saw there really is only _one_ Leblanc in Yongen-Jaya (and wow, it’s actually opposite the Laundromat, you’re so daft), so now you’re finally entering the little establishment. The smell of coffee and something sweeter you can’t immediately place hits you, reminding you of all things that you haven’t had diner yet. You push that thought far away, doubting you'd find anything considered as food in your fridge, and search for the student, but the cafe is empty save for the barista leaning against the counter, perking up at the sound of a new costumer.

     “Evening,” he greets. “What can I bring you?”

     Remembering the last bit of your student’s text, you fish the paper out of your back. “Well, I’m here for this,” you say. “The job offer.”

     “Ah, that thing,” he says, and suddenly all the politeness is gone, sucked out of him and in its place remains a deep scowl belonging to a man that is faced to look after his child he's only recently won the custody of. He leans back, gives a gruff nod towards a table as invitation for you to sit down. Before you can make yourself comfortable, his voice thunders through the shop. “Hey, come down! Your tutor’s here!”

     There’s thumping above you like someone’s thrown over a heavy object, then steps from somewhere behind you, and you turn around to see your student reach the end of a staircase, hidden in the very back of the cafe.

     Only it’s not a 2nd year high school student, it’s the lean, tall guy from yesterday, the one with unruly black hair and glasses who is a 1st year law student and—

 _Oh_.

     The boy closes the distance and slides in the seat opposite from you, throwing little, sheepish glances at you from behind the glasses (good, he has enough decency to be ashamed of his lies), and suddenly his young features are so fucking obvious, it punches you in the face like a hot iron. The _clang,_ though soft, is like a gunshot beside you; the barista (owner since he knew you’d come?) grumbles something like “This time is on the house,” and leaves the cup of coffee next to you, retreating back behind the bar.

     “So,” you start. “First year law student, huh.”

     The boy massages the back of his neck, but when he looks up at you from behind his thick curtain of black lashes, there’s something sharp in his eyes. “Well, you just assumed I was a student, didn’t you? I just chose to not correct you on that.”

     He’s got a point, and you bite your tongue before you add the rest of the impolite things that crossed your mind yesterday besides that. “Let’s just forget that, okay? I’ll help you, but you better be serious about this. If I give you homework, you'll finish it before our next session, got it? We’ll meet Wednesday and Sunday, but I don’t want you whining about studying on your free day, or you can find someone else,” you say as if you are actually the one who can decide that; who has the power to make demands. As if you don’t depend on his money.

     “Got it.” Well, at least he seems sincere about it. “It’s a deal then.”

     You look up at those words and don’t miss the slight curl at one corner of his lips, like he’s sharing a secret with you.

     “Okay.” Not strange at all. “Sure.”

     He leans back in his seat, shifting slightly as he crosses one leg over the other. “So, you said you’d bring quizzes with you, teach?”

     “God, please don’t call me that.”

     “Not God. It’s Akira,” he says.

     “What?”

     “My name.” He grins. “Akira Kurusu.”

 

___________________________________________

 

     After an hour of going through what you’ll cover with Kurusu in your next sessions, just as promised Kurusu pushes 7,000 yen in your hand and you will yourself to act cool about it, and not like you’ve been handed the last desert of a busily visited buffet— which reminds you, it’s time you hand in your letter of resignation. Saying your goodbyes to Kurusu and Mr. Sakura (who’s been quiet all the time, but there was never a moment you didn’t feel his observant eyes on you), you finally leave the cafe and speed dial Narukami’s number. Before he can say anything, you greet him with, “You’re a fucking saint, Narukami.”

     He gives you one of his deep, throaty laughs that never fail to make your toes curl. “ _If you only knew_.”

      “What?”

      “ _I said, good for you,_ ” he says. “ _If there’s someone deserving that job and payment, it’s you_.”

      “Aww.” You smile. “Stop it, you.”

      “ _Oh, we’re finally at first name base_?”

      And just quickly as that, your smile disappears again. “Never mind, I take it back.”

     Narukami laughs again, and until you reach the dormitory near the train station you just chat about unimportant things and decide to meet for lunch tomorrow. It’s the best you’ve felt since a long time, and even though your classes don’t really allow you to put in some extra time to prepare lessons, you’re pretty confident you’ll manage it somehow. Still, it feels like you’re ripping off that high school student. 7k bucks is really too much for one hour of going through simple stuff (and it doesn’t feel like Kurusu’s dumb, maybe he’s just lazy), but you’d be really stupid to point that out. Well, here’s to hoping _he_ doesn’t figure it out for as long as possible. Cheers to the wild, dumb youth.

 

 

 

 

 

_I am **Thou** , Thou art I…  
Thou hast acquired a **new** vow. _

_It shall **become** the wings of rebellion  
That **breaketh** thy chains of captivity. _

_With the **birth** of the Saint Persona,_  
_I have obtained the winds of blessing that_  
_Shall lead to freedom and new **power** …_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, we’re in for a ride
> 
> *source: http://www.ac-psych.org/en/issues/volume/14/issue/3#art241


	2. [Rank 2]

     The morning starts as usual.

     You sweet talk your water boiler into working so you can poison your body with disgusting instant coffee, and throw some fried eggs in a pan since it's definitely better than starving during the first two classes. Across from your one room apartment, you can hear loud rock music and Junpei Iori sceaming like someone is trying to stab him. The student living in the apartment beneath you is knocking at his ceiling with the end of a broom, trying to make you stop the noise. This whole building is shit with walls thin as a pad, and he thinks it’s actually you with the bad music taste and a death wish this early in the morning— all in all, the day starts like any else. Even your phone blinks with unread messages you’re ignoring until you sit down for breakfast and finally give it the attention you probably should invest into something like the morning news or yoga.

     Everything is pretty much the same save for an unknown number sitting in your inbox.

 

 

> **[unknown number]:** _hey, you forgot your notebook @ my place_
> 
> **[you]:** _And who the fuck is this?_
> 
> **[unknown number]:** _language, teach :o  
>  _

     You groan. It’s too early, it feels like you’re chewing through cardboard and your coffee is so bitter you feel your mouth is turning inwards. How in the world do the Gods think you’re capable of dealing with this bullshit just after waking up.

 

 

> **[you]:** S _o you are able to write like a normal teenager after all._
> 
> **[unknown number]:** _? :D_
> 
> **[you]:** _Never mind._
> 
> **[you]:** _I'll pick it up tomorrow. It’s probably just scribbles and notes._
> 
> **[unknown number]:** _i dunno. “impact of bullying on child personality” sounds p important 2 me_
> 
> **[you]:** _You snooped through my stuff???_
> 
> **[unknown number]:** _no_
> 
> **[unknown number]:** _maybe_
> 
> **[unknown number]:** _sorry_
> 
> **[you]:** _Surprisingly honest. Like I said, I’ll manage today without it._

     There’s no reply, so you focus back on getting ready. Your first class on Tuesday starts around 8 and since you’ve started this weird habit of getting this stupid overpriced but ridiculously delicious green tea each day, you make sure to get there on time before it’s sold out. Maybe they put some drug in there and it got every student addicted to it.

     Outside, you can smell the early summer’s heat. It’s uncharacteristically warm for late May and you feel sorry for high school students who still have to wear their winter uniform for another two weeks. Maybe you should consider to move once summer really kicks in and settle down somewhere really cold like the Antarctica. You’re pretty sure you don’t have to worry about getting a heat stroke there. Only it’s not even the worst outside, the real Hell starts when you enter the train station and the smell of sweat and cologne punches you in the face. Yongen-Jaya station is a bowl currently in danger of overflowing with the people trying to squeeze through the station gates to get to their trains. Experience taught you to go with the flow, let the crowd carry you to your destination; the less you move, the faster you get where you want to be— survival of the fittest? More like survival of the laziest.

     Popping a chocolate filled with coffee (because after one cup in the morning you’re still unable to function properly) in your mouth, you scroll through your phone, ignoring the unread messages from your mom dropping into your mailbox like dead flies assembling on your windowsill. If it’s urgent, she’ll call, you tell yourself. The crowd pushes you forward, right in front of the white line that separates people from a painful death. Subway workers try to maintain some sort of order, and fail spectacularly as the train arrives and people force their way in, pushing and pulling at each other. You feel someone’s hand trying to get into your pocket to steal your chocolate. The world truly is a cruel place.

     Finally inside, you don’t even try to hold onto one of the grab bars above you, and simply lean against someone behind you, ignoring the complaining grunts and the pushing of an elbow against your side until it becomes very hard to ignore because they practically shove you against the windows, and magically you manage to bring up a hand and catch yourself before smacking your face against the glass. A swear is already getting comfortable on your tongue until you look down and see a familiar face staring back up at you with big eyes.

     “Oh, it’s you,” you observe the obvious, apparently lacking every form of proper manners your parents taught you.

     Akira Kurusu gives you a small nod, his arms holding his school back tightly like he’s carrying the world’s greatest treasure. Maybe he’s robbed a bank? There’s an open book laying on top of it but the letters are too small for you to recognise anything. His eyes follow the trail of your neck, then shoulder until they rest on your arm, and you realise how awkward this is with the person behind you still pushing and if they keep that up, you might land in Kurusu’s lap and now _that_ would probably make both your mornings excellent, but you rather stay where you are so you just try to shimmy out of the way before said elbow breaks one of your ribs. The train keeps going and the people around you talk but it becomes white noise in the back of your head until you hear the meowing of a cat somewhere. Maybe it sneaked inside somehow and is now regretting all life decisions that led him to this moment. Kurusu clears his throat, and you look back down when you notice the black blazer and the white emblem on his chest.

     “Wait, you’re a Shujin student? Wasn’t there this legal case with the PE teacher a couple of weeks ago?”

     Kurusu closes his book with confidence like he’s been waiting for someone to talk to him about that speficic topic, and now you see that he’s been reading _Buchiko’s Story_. Aww, a soft boy through and through.

     “Three weeks, actually,” he says. “He had a change of heart.”

     You saw the news and pretty much everyone around you talked about it. Just like the majority, you wondered how someone would just admit doing all that horrible stuff after covering it up for so long, which brings you to Kurusu’s words: “Change of heart? You really think his consciousness couldn’t bear it all of a sudden and he decided to be good? Just like that?” you ask, doubt oozing out of your voice. Sure, exceptions confirm the rule, but it’s never just out of nowhere. Usually perpetrators subconsciously start showing signs of remorse towards confidants before deciding to admit to their crime, not to mention dropping a bomb like that in front of the whole school? Hypnotherapy maybe? Or a forced hard reboot? It certainly would make an interesting case study for a future assignment.

     “No,” Kurusu says, stopping your train of thought. A thick, black curl is between his fingers and he keeps tugging at his hair. “The Phantom Thieves came after him and stole his twisted desires,” he adds, and looks up at you with surprisingly keen, sharp eyes like they might come after you as well and maybe you’d feel at least something like a shudder if you’d actually know what the Hell he’s talking about.

     “Phantom Thieves? Are they a new band?” you ask, though you’re not really into contemporary music. Kurusu blinks at you, then his hand falls on his book. He opens it and goes back to reading, ending the conversation like it’s no one’s business, which is _rude much_? Scratch ‘soft boy’, he’s probably growing up to be a hipster who is only reading classics to feel sophisticated and annoys people with trending bands and music hits. You pretend it doesn’t bother you to be dismissed like that, and read through the ads popping up on the screens. You don’t know why anybody would pay that amount of money for adhesive bandages but you’re also very stingy when it comes to it.

     Finally, the female voice announces Shibuya as the next station where you’ll board another train. Kurusu doesn’t move, and you faintly remember Shujin Academy is somewhere further east from Shibuya. The train vomits its passengers onto the platforms but the next wave quickly gets back inside. A tingle in your neck makes you turn around, and from across the platform you see Kurusu looking at you. An impulse takes you by surprise and the moment you lift your hand to wave at him, he decides to look down and focuses on his phone. Teenagers and their addiction to stay up to date and available on social media. You shake your head and take out your own phone, checking Twitter because you are a hypocrite, scrolling through the tweets of fellow students gushing over the exhibit of a famous artist.

 

 

> **@charli_xoxo says:** _stop praising him, that dude is plagiarising_
> 
> **@burnedchickennugget says:** @charli_xoxo _the hell, how about you don’t spread baseless rumours??????_
> 
> **@Rise_Fan says:** _His art is unlike anything Japan has seen before. But if we want to contest with our Western rivals, we need to acknowledge Madarame-sensei’s talent more!!!_
> 
> **@toby says:** _his art’s p cool_
> 
> **@jackspedicy says:** @toby _not as good as bobby rossie tho_
> 
> **@toby says:** @jackspedicy _bobby who?_
> 
> **@jackspedicy says:** @toby _remove yourself from this conversation. right now._

     Sometimes you wonder how many brain cells people lose by engaging in those conversations, and with that thought you say goodbye to one of yours and reply “@toby @jackspedicy _rip_ ”.

     Crossing the last traffic lights, the university looms like a drop into the sky before you, it’s dark glass windows reflecting the early morning sun. It’s busy as usual, students rushing to their classes with cloth backs bulging with books in one hand and a cardboard cup of coffee in their other. Just like you expected, the green tea is sold out and you have to wait until lunch to get your fill. On your way to class, your eyes throw daggers at everyone drinking it. The first two classes pass with little specularity. One of them is actually one of your favourites because this professor doesn’t know the concept of personal information. Professor Yanagihara shares every little detail about his life with his students, talks about his vacations and more than often drifts off topic to engage his students in philosophical arguments. Out of everyone, he’s your favourite because he doesn’t appear fake— a bold claim, because maybe that is his actual act and he’s hiding something completely different behind his polite smiles and motivated speeches. Or maybe you’re just paranoid because the knowledge of your mother’s text waiting for your is taking its toll on you. Nonetheless, Yanagihara gives you the feeling that he’s an actual person, not just academic knowledge cramped into flesh. Thanks to that, you go into lunch break feeling surprisingly good and refreshed for a change. Today’s meal is something vegan that will hopefully be a nice, healthy change for you. The canteen is a minefield as always, hungry cadets everywhere, but you success in your mission to secure an empty table for you and Narukami.

     “Oh no,” you say when he finally joins you shortly after you chase away first years trying to take the seats. “Someone’s not happy.”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, giving his meal a doubtful look like it might jump at him at any second. Still, he claps his hands together and starts eating.

     “You’re angry,” you specify and point first at your forehead, than at this. “You always have this crease between your eyebrows.”

     Narukami stops and smooths said wrinkle with his thumb, muttering something like “Freaking shrinks” to which you wink at him. It takes another two minutes of him sorting through his food like he might find a cockroach hidden in the pile of rice before he finally says, “My professor gave me an internship offer. It’s from Tanaka’s Attorney Office.”

     You smile, though it feels hollow, like you’re a pumpkin and someone carved it into your face. “That’s great.”

     A shadow settles over Narukami’s eyes. “No, it isn’t. They defend criminals. People so entitled, so certain they won’t be caught that being caught, that very concern doesn’t even occur to them. People who think the laws are written for them, that they are protected by it.”

     “So?” you counter, noticing the tension in Narukami’s shoulders. Today must be one of your bad days because you’re really getting into it. Something hot, ugly slithers on your tongue, demanding to get free. “Who cares? If you do good, they’ll want to keep you and you’ll be set for life.”

     “And protect criminals? Knowing I’m destroying lives of innocents?” You know exactly where he’s going with those words, and you brace yourself, but not for the first time, you underestimate Narukami like the fool you are. “As if you’d do the same to your future patients,” he says quietly, and with that, you already know you’ve lost. Still, you try a comeback.

     “You want to land somewhere big later? You take this internship,” you say. All appetite is gone and you feel like you’ve eaten moulded paper, the words leaving a bitter tingle on your tongue. “Don’t be stupid, Narukami.”

     He settles back, and taps the end of his chopsticks against the table until you feel the urge to grab and break them. “I won’t take it,” he says eventually, calm like a saint when you really wish he’d lash out at you. “I’ll go somewhere where I can make a difference.”

     It’s such a Narukami thing to say; words suited to a hero, or an anime protagonist that you can’t help but bark a laugh in his face. “There is no such thing as making a difference. No one will take you seriously with that kind of attitude, you know.”

     “Why?” Narukami asks, and he sounds so honest about it, you don’t notice his eyes flashing like a drawn dagger. “You think you know all about it because your dad works in a place like that?” He doesn’t say it like an insult, it’s nonchalant, there’s no malice, and still it’s like a poisoned dart drills into your chest and spreads the deadly substance through your whole body, making you grow cold and nauseated. You decide to play along and give him a crooked grin. “Absolutely. No one gives a shit about the truth, not when cash is involved. People rather sacrifice their morale than money.”

     Narukami considers you with his trademark blank expression, then proceeds scooping more rice on his chopsticks. “You’d know everything about it, wouldn’t you.”

     You mutter a silent “ _Fuck you_ ” but it’s lacking the venom you’d usually pump into those words to signal people they better stay away from you or their face will be acquainted with your fist. Narukami is unapologetic when it comes to the truth, but somehow it’s never bothered you with him. Maybe it’s because you know that he knows that for all the foul things your mouth sputters you also want to make a difference; you also want the world to change. You’re just lacking his confidence to do so.

     It’s a clear defeat in your book, so you retreat to safer grounds and decide to change the subject. “By the way, heard anything new about this case with the teacher from Shujin? Kamo-something…”

     “Suguru Kamoshida,” Narukami offers, then pauses and places his sticks down. “He’s still in police custody. From what I’ve heard, he’s refusing lawyers’ offers to defend him, and pleads guilty even though they tell him he won’t go to jail if he apologises.” His voice drops, and with it any good mood that might have been left inside you.

     “They can’t do that. He physically abused his students, raped one for _fu_ —” You stop, because there’s no need to get angry at Narukami for this. Instead, you breathe in, you breathe out. It doesn’t help.

     “He’s a first-time offender on top of that,” Narukami continues, picking on the hem of his left sleeve. “They won’t sentence him. They don’t know what to do with him, because he wants to take responsibility.”

     “As he should,” you hiss, and you don’t even want to get into this argument because there’s a thirty pages essay collecting dusk in one of your USB folders on how rapists fail to see their fault and have trouble acknowledging the gravity of their actions because they dissociate with the victim and their action that is graded F because a lecturer found the topic too sensitive and poorly argued (which you know is bullshit because the very same lecturer has praised your writing, thorough research and argumentation on more than one occasion).

     “And he will,” Narukami says. “But I’m just as interested in knowing how The Phantom Thieves managed to make him confess.”

     There it is again. The Phantom Thieves. Grey eyes behind round glasses come to your mind, sharp like a dagger’s blade. It smothers the fire inside you, dulls it to a weak flicker.

     “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

     Narukami shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I?”

     “Why _should_ you? It’s impossible. Probably just a dumb prank the students played on that guy.”

     “Maybe it’s a prank.” He leans back and crosses his hands behind his neck, rubbing the stiff muscles. “Maybe it’s someone trying to do the right thing.”

     “Stealing someone’s twisted desires?” you quote Kurusu’s words from this morning. “Let’s go wild and say that’s possible. How is that ethically right?”

     Narukami considers you. Instead of answering, he asks, “How do you know that?”

     “A Shujin student told me.” And just when you say it, somehow you feel you shouldn’t have. “The one I’m tutoring.”

     Narukami nods like he already expected that answer. Eventually, he says, “I don’t know. What happened, why Kamoshida behaves like that. What will happen to him. I really don’t know.”

     It would be a real surprise if Narukami did, but the way he said it made it sound so final, so defeated. You don’t know about the battles Narukami has fought or is fighting; you can’t say if they are related to this, and the repetition of subject, emotions and pain tires him. The truth that there really is little you know about Narukami sits like a stone in your stomach as you both sit in silence, not eating, not looking at each other. Suddenly, you just really want to go home.

  
___________________________________________  


     Evening advances faster after an awkward goodbye to Narukami and the last two classes you barely pay attention to. With only a little time left before tutoring starts, you cram the hastily printed quiz papers for Kurusu in your back and beeline out of the library before staff notices you still haven’t paid your copy-fees. The ride back to Yongen-Jaya lulls you into a semi-coma, luckily you’ve avoided rush hour and managed to grab a seat. How heavenly this ride could be if it wasn’t for the grandma snoring on your shoulder, drooling on you.

     When you enter Leblanc you find Kurusu sitting on a stool at the bar, head down resting against the surface like he’s given up on life and you really, really, really want to say _what a mood_. Instead, you summon all your will power to appear like a responsible adult. A curious glance towards Mr. Sakura doesn’t give you any insight because he just shrugs and turns around, instead focusing on a crossword puzzle he balances on one thigh.

     “Don’t expect too much. He’s been like this all day,” Mr. Sakura says, scratching his chin with a pen.

     You unpack all your stuff on the table where your forgotten notebook already waits for you, and you welcome it back in your shabby bag before looking at Kurusu’s back. First day in, and he’s already defeated. Maybe he’s actually your spirit animal because you’d definitely be up for cancelling the tutoring and just hang out, maybe watch a movie. But then Narukami’s face flashes in the back of your mind, considerate and hard-working and you really don’t need him guilt tripping you without even being present. You grab Kurusu’s shoulders and pull him from the bar stool, ignoring his protesting grunts. In the booth, he slouches again, and you send a silent prayer to your grandma, hoping she can forgive an ignorant youth like him.

     “Come on, we don’t have all night,” you say, spreading the teaching materials. “When are your next exams?”

     “July,” Kurusu mutters against the wood, head down again as if he’s hoping his face becomes one with the table. “Finals.”

     Well, that’s still plenty of time, you think.

     “Two months will pass faster than you can anticipate and then what?” Mr. Sakura says, and thank God he can’t read your mind— or maybe he can and that’s why he said it.

     “Exactly,” you agree, doing your best to look strict and authoritative, and totally not called out.

     Kurusu looks like he wants to flip both of you off but his manners are stronger than his grudge, so he finally sits upright and pulls the materials in front of him, grabbing for a pen. While you instruct him, Mr. Sakura places another cup in front of you and gives you a wink. “Since you’re putting this much effort into helping him out, I can put a little extra in for you too,” he says with a little smile, which is a blessing because you definitely won’t say No to delicious coffee you can’t afford in the first place, and at the same time is extremly creepy because you sure he’s flirting with you on some kind of level even though he’s old enough to be your dad.

     The session starts with some easy questions about post WWII literature, but Kurusu doesn’t really know anything about it, so you proceed with giving an overview of the most important historical and cultural events. Kurusu is good at connecting both sides to see their impact on literature, and you’re somewhat proud that you don’t fuck up all this education stuff. Maybe you should have become a teacher instead? Quickly, you move on to social studies, but throughout that your phone starts to buzz in your pocket with incoming messages, and once Kurusu is occupied with the next task, you quickly sneak a glance at your phone, barely holding back the groan working its way out of your mouth. It’s this small group you’re in, consisting of some fellow students you’ve worked with over the years. Some you know better, some less. They friendly remind you of the upcoming reading in Jinbochi you still don’t feel an inch excited about. You groan and lie your head on the table while scrolling through the messages, reading how everyone’s looking for someone to go so they don’t have to. Borrowing notes isn’t your piece of cake, so unfortunately there’s no great outcome for you. You wonder what Narukami will be up to in Inaba at that time, but asking about it feels a little too intrusive, and you haven’t reached that level of friendship yet. If you don’t stick your nose into his business, he won’t do the same to you and that’s exactly what you want.

     Suddenly, Kurusu’s poking at your head with his pen. You raise your head to see what he wants, and he pushes his paper under your nose to check his answers. You skim the text, cheek squished against the cool table. They aren’t the world’s cleverest replies but you think he’s doing pretty good for a high school student (surprisingly good for someone claiming he needs tutoring), so you just give him some tips for structure and elaborate a little about compulsive behaviour you’re pretty sure is a topic his teachers won’t even touch. Kurusu keeps nodding like a good student and takes notes, though you can’t see if he’s really writing everything down or just repeats the same word over and over again. At some point, he looks up at you and interrupts your monologue by asking “Is everything all right?” which makes your brain stumble and your train of thought trip.

     “Ah, yeah?” You consider asking where that came from, but you decide on a question in return. “Hooow about you?”

     Kurusu looks down on his notes, then nods, though something in his voice doesn’t sound convinced. “All good.”

     What a meaningful conversation.

     “Good,” you say. “That’s good.” Maybe a TV crew is just seconds away from striding inside and filming what must be the world’s most awkward conversation since the beginning of mankind. From behind the bar, Mr. Sakura agrees with your thoughts by giving a strained, fake cough to fill the silence, probably ashamed of you both.

     Your phone goes off again, and you consider dunking it in the cup of coffee Mr. Sakura has very generously provided you but you’re broke and can’t afford paying for a new cup, much less a new phone.

     This time, Kurusu is a lot more forward. “Someone bothering you?” he asks, folding and opening a corner of his paper.

     You want to tell him it’s none of his business but at the same time there’s no need to be an asshole. “Just some classmates. There’s this reading coming up on Saturday and everyone’s kind of freaking out about it. I really don’t want to go, but meh.” You shrug. “It’s sort of mandatory.”

     Something about Kurusu’s posture relaxes, and he nods. After a moment of silence, with only the quiet TV noises in the background and the scratching of Mr. Sakura’s pen, Kurusu asks, “What kind of reading?”

     “The kind of reading not suited for high school students,” you say. “It’s about Reed’s edited anthology about the theories and empirical data in the field of cognitive psychology. Nothing really interesting for you.”

     “Actually,” Kurusu says, tapping his fingers against the table in an even rhythm, “I think that’s very interesting.”

     You raise an eyebrow. “You’d want to go?”

     Kurusu just shrugs. “I’m free after school, I think.” Without waiting for your consent, he gets his phone out and looks at his calendar, but you can see in the reflexion of his glasses that the screen remains black. Usually, you call people out on their bullshit, but you have to admit, you’re interested in Kurusu’s plan. Eventually, he nods. “Yeah, no plans yet.”

     “Ooookay.” A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Sure. Why the Hell not.”

     From behind the bar, Mr. Sakura clears his throat. You wince, feeling the urge to argue you’re an adult and are allowed to swear but challenging him might not be the brightest idea. “Why the heck not,” you correct yourself. “If you’re interested in that stuff, be my guest. Let’s meet at 5pm in Shibuya and head over to Jinbocho together.”

     “Jinbocho?” Now Kurusu’s screen lits up as he googles the location. From Mr. Sakura’s direction comes an approving sound, but you wonder how Kurusu’s never heard of it before, living in Tokyo.

     “It’s also known as a book town for a very obvious reason, but you’ll see for yourself,” you say, checking the time. The lesson is almost done anyway, so you wrap up and assign him to read a few chapters you’ll discuss on Sunday. Kurusu jots it down sloppily, his eyes hidden behind half-closed lids. You’re pretty sure he’ll forget it the moment he puts down his pen.

     Suddenly, something brushes against your ankles. You jump in your seat and hit your knees against the table, choking on a bad curse you’re sure will make Mr. Sakura manhandle you into washing your mouth before throwing you outside. Kurusu flinches as well, looking a lot more awake now. His head disappears under the table and when he returns, there’s a cat in his arms, meowing and flailing.

     “He says he’s sorry,” Kurusu translates, wiggling the tiny paws, fearless of the sharp claws waiting to meet his skin. You give the cat a nasty glare and rub your throbbing knee. There goes your non-existent track career.

     “Sure he is,” you mumble. Those big, innocent eyes can’t fool you. The cat notices that as well and struggles out of Kurusu’s grasp, jumping on a bar stool to beg Mr. Sakura for some food.

     In the meantime, Kurusu has already slid across your payment for tonight (that sounds so wrong), his head back down on the table.

     “Maybe you shouldn’t stay awake too long,” you suggest the obvious, but Kurusu doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s already asleep.

     You say your goodbye to Sojiro and make your slow way home, buying some groceries on the way. It’s somewhere in the back of your mind, but you don’t want to think too much about how you’re now looking forward to the weekend.

 

___________________________________________

 

     Saturdays are skipping days, or so you falsely assume, standing between two advertising kiosks in Shibuya, waiting for Kurusu. There’s still about an hour left before the reading starts and even though the city and subway is crammed with tourists and residents, you’re sure you’ll make it on time. Your phone buzzes and you sort of expect Kurusu to ditch you at the last second, but when Narukami’s nickname flashes on your screen, a wave of relief fills you. You haven’t seen him for the rest of the week after your strange conversation and somehow you feel like you should apologise, but you don’t know what for or how. Seeing him contacting you first (as always) in such a light, friendly manner (as always) eases your tensions and every possible blame you convinced yourself you bore in making things awkward.

 

 

> **[Naru-man]:** [arrived_InabaStation.jpg attached] _have fun (:_
> 
> **[you]:** _Yeah, you too. Don’t forget souvenirs!_
> 
> **[Naru-man]:** _:thumbsup:_

     You push your phone back into your pocket, smiling stupidly. If Narukami thinks you don’t see the orange shock of hair peeking into the picture in one corner, he definitely underestimates your stalking skills. When it’s close to 5.20 and your train leaves in about ten minutes, you start looking for Kurusu. In the end, he finds you and claims you walked past him twice which you call bullshit— then again, he’s still wearing his school uniform and there’s something about Kurusu that makes him drown in the crowd. He just looks so ordinary. Compared to yesterday he looks a little more rested, but dark shadows beneath his eyes betray him and tell you that he probably didn’t heed your proposal and had a long, restless night.

     “Come on, we’ve got thirty minutes until it starts,” you say, pulling him out of the way and down to the subway station. At first, you imagined it would be impossible to start a conversation with him, but Kurusu surprises you by initiating small talk, asking about your week since Wednesday and what you’ve been up to today. It’s unnervingly normal, comfortable even when you fall into easy banter you didn’t expect from him.

     “Did you finish the homework I gave you for tomorrow?” you ask after you finally reach Jinbocho, turning around to face him because a lot of people exit the train and it’s crowded. Kurusu’s front is pressing against your back, and you’re not sure if it’s because there really is no space for him to walk or if he’s ensuring that he doesn’t lose you with that method. The aroma of coffee and something sweet drifts between the sweat and perfume and you unconsciously lean more into him.

     Kurusu bashes his eyelashes at you, smiling like an angel. “Of course.”

     “You’re not even trying. Did your parents teach you to lie to someone’s face like that?”

     “I would never,” the Liar continues lying.

     The bookstore is only ten minutes away from the station, tugged between a cafe and an antiquarian bookshop. Big signs advert the event and a line already waits in front of the entrance. You recognise some students immediately from classes, but your motivation only suffices for a lazy wave in their direction. Unfortunately, the queue moves slowly so you’re forced to more small talk with Kurusu who’s busy looking at all the book stores rowing side by side down the street.

     “So, are you planning to go to college after high school?” you ask.

     Kurusu turns back to you and nudges his school bag with his elbow. His hands disappear in the pockets of his pants and you notice his weird habit of shifting his weight from side to side.

     “I don’t know,” he says. “I wouldn’t know what to study.”

     “I mean, you still have some time to think about it. And college isn’t the ultimate answer anyway,” you admit, staring at a point above his shoulder, doing your best to ignore a fellow student who’s been waving in your direction for the last two minutes.

     “Why psychology?” Kurusu returns a question as the line finally moves on. You’ve heard it so often, you don’t tense up anymore and scramble for a good answer.

     “To help people, obviously,” you lie when the truth is you never want to not know what’s going on in people’s heads. You don’t want to be afraid of them, and especially of yourself. But that’s a selfish reason. No one wants to hear that. Somehow, even Kurusu doesn’t look satisfied with that answer. He hums and nudges your back to move forward as the line continues to disappear in the shop. When you’re finally inside, you find two free seats near the wall with a clear view at the small podium. Kurusu takes the chair behind you, and once you sit, he leans forward and props his elbows on his knees.

     “You could have studied medicine,” he resumes the conversation. “Or social work. You went for psychology.”

     “I didn’t know I owe you my life story,” you respond a little too fiercely, and Kurusu waits a full three seconds before he leaves your personal space and leans back. He’s really too smart for his own good, but you also underestimated him. Before, you wouldn’t have expected Kurusu to be this straight forward. You thought he was shy and reserved, but that’s not true at all. Ordinary and Boring is slapped on his forehead, so you can imagine people letting their guard down around him. But he’s listening carefully and uses words like ammunition he stores until the right time comes to load his mouth and unleash a blitzkrieg on his opposite, not giving any time to built up defences.

     When Joseph Reed finally enters, followed closely by a Japanese translator, the audience’s chatting dies and he starts by introducing himself briefly, and then quickly moves on to the editorial changes and additions he’s made since the first published edition. The research intensity and development skyrocketed in the last couple of years and definitely won’t stop so soon with how much there is still to learn about the brain. But when he starts explaining each chapter individually, your own brain shuts down and you lose your focus. Instead your mind wanders to a more unpleasant territory, wondering how much a person’s cognition could be altered, even toyed with. If you change the way a person sees a certain event or person even, could you actually make them forget something entirely? Could you make your br— No. You forbid yourself following that train of thought.

     The rest of the reading flies by. Whenever your thoughts don’t spiral into depressing depths, you manage to jot down notes that might come in handy in future lectures (naively assuming you’ll be able to read your scrawling later, you fool). When the end approaches, Reed raises his arm and encourages the audience to ask questions. Multiple arms raise immediately and you swallow a groan. This is going to take a while.

     Eventually someone asks Reed if he’d consider lecturing at their college. You didn’t believe someone could suck dick that much, but Reed isn’t shy to show how delighted he is about that question. Maybe he’s prepared himself all day for that exact one because the power point behind him jumps to the next page and shows the picture of a tiny rabbit cleaning its face.

     “Oh, I would love to go back to teaching,” Reed says dramatically, “but then there will be no one looking after my precious Bunsbuns and he’ll succumb. I can’t let that happen.”

     “This is so sad,” Kurusu suddenly whispers, his warm breath tickling your ear. “Alexa, play Despacito.”

     You choke on your saliva, fighting the laughter that crashes over you like a tidal wave. To chide him, you push your elbow in his side until he finally leans back, but you don’t miss the little, content smile on his lips. He didn’t notice you spacing out, did he? If this was his attempt to make your feel better, it’s good but the fact that he saw through you and tried to comfort you in the first place leaves you with an undefinable feeling that sits heavy like a stone in your stomach. Until the Q&A ends you try not to think too much about his presence behind you.

     When it’s finally over and you spill outside onto the night life of Jinbocho, it’s still full of people strolling around. You stretch until your backbone cracks and with that breathing feels a little easier. The harsh neon light of shops and advert signs hurts your eyes and you can’t wait to reacquaint your face with your pillow. But before you can promise your body the sweet bliss of sleep, it demands to be feed when you reach the subway station filled with the smell of fried food and freshly baked bread. Kurusu follows your eyes and points at a food stand selling yakisoba.

     “Want some?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for your response, already heading for it. You’re thinking really hard about whether you have some coins in your wallet when Kurusu orders two servings and pays both. Instead of waiting for your protest (that won’t come because you won’t complain about free food), he pushes the warm container in your hands.

     “Are you an angel?” you ask, digging in and your stomach thanks you by not eating itself.

     Kurusu adjusts his glasses, nodding solemnly. “It hurt pretty bad when I fell from heaven.”

     “And so modest as well.”

     Slowly you make your way underground, arriving a few minutes before your train to Yongen-Jaya reaches the station. After stuffing your mouth with food and staring at the destination board, a great idea comes to your mind.

     “Wait, you’re living in Yongen-Jaya, right? We could start meeting at your place instead of that shabby cafe,” you suggest, already searching for your phone in your pocket to note down his address. Kurusu pulls at the bangs falling into his eyes, staring intently at an advertisement about a movie coming out in a couple of months.

     “Actually, that’s where I live.”

     “What?”

     “The cafe. There’s an attic above it, and that’s where I live.”

     “Oh, okay.” The award for being rude goes to you, you want to thank your friends, not your family— “Okay, cool. So is Mr. Sakura your uncle?”

     A tiny snort leaves Kurusu as he drops his hand and shoves it back into his pocket. You wonder if he just doesn't know where to put his hands and hiding them is just easier. “Just call him Boss. And no he isn't, but he is looking after me. Sort of.”

     “And your parents are rolling with it?” you ask, too late to realise how indelicate of a question that is. What if he doesn’t have parents? Or they can’t see him because of some serious issues? And just like you expected it, his answer is short, terse. “Yeah.”

     Congratulations, now you’ve made it even more awkward. You walk side by side, the silence setting heavy around you while people pass you, merrily chatting and you wish you could dial back time to avoid that unpleasant moment. You pick at your food and watch him out of the corner of your eyes, noticing that he doesn’t seem to be hungry himself. After the train arrives and you both manage to grab a seat, Kurusu saves you both from further embarrassment and awkward silence. “We could go to your place though,” he says, giving you a quick side glance, but immediately avoids eye contact when you look back, calculating how serious he is about it.

     You raise both eyebrows, using the let’s-make-fun-of-it-to-save-face-method you’re unrivalled at. “How about you invite me to dinner first?”

     Kurusu looks from his meal to yours, then up to your face and raises an eyebrow in return. Damn, he's good.

     “Noope, it has to be something fancy with a waiter and those ridiculously tiny, overpriced entrees.”

     Kurusu has his phone out faster than a paparazzi seeing a celebrity wearing a tutu and twerking on the open street. “When and where?” Now he’s putting all seriousness he can muster in that gaze, it’s heavy on you but you can’t help and laugh, waving your hand around in a generally considered we-both-are-definitely-joking-gesture. You hope he is joking.

     “Never mind. Leblanc is actually nice, and I get free coffee.”

     Kurusu nods and puts his phone away, trying really hard to not look upset, and his face is doing a splendid job, but his body betrays him. You want to tell him that maybe in two or three years he can try again, joking of course (are you though?), and luckily you are refrained from thinking more about that when you reach Yongen-Jaya. The empty food container lands in the trash bin when you leave the station. With a lot less people around to bump into, this district feels like a different world. There’s a quiet, underlying hum of activity hiding in the narrow alleys but it doesn’t feel like a beast seconds away from pouncing you with promotional offers or shop invitations. The hasty city rollercoaster slows down to a pleasant boat tour on a shallow river, carrying you to safe shore. That is until your phone goes off in a very specific tune that makes your blood freeze. Immediately, you turn away from Kurusu, the little smile on your face when he was telling you what he thought most interesting about the reading dying. Without looking at the display, you accept the call.

     “What do you want?”

     You mother sighs at the other end but does a good job at acting indifferent. “ _Hello to you, too. I was wondering when you’ll show up again_.”

     The titled grin on your face feels like a straight cut made by a blunt knife. “How about not at all?”

     “ _Stop being so immature_ ,” your mother snaps, then clears her throat to regain composure. “ _Your father and I have been talking about the situation and are willing to come to a consensus. Will you behave?_ ”

     There’s a bunch of other stuff you’d rather do like reach into your phone, and curl your fingers around her throat. Instead you lower your voice. “If this is you trying to make peace, you really suck at it.”

     There’s a sharp inhale. You know how much your mother hates swearing; or rather pretty much everything that doesn’t suit into her notion of a perfect, conservative family— oh, the things your parents do to appear flawless, better than anyone— You catch movement in the corner of your eyes. Kurusu shifts his weight away from you, his attention lying on something in a shop window but again his body is making it quite obvious that he’s listening into your conversation.

     “— _ceasefire at best_ ,” your mother’s words carry to your end, and you focus back to the problem at hand, unfortuantely completely unable to deal with it.

     “Yeah, sure. I’ll call you back,” you say, and without waiting for her reply you end the call. Kurusu has still his back to you, so you join him and look through the brightly lit glass to see what is holding his fake-attention.

     “Sooo you’re into crossdressing?” you say, checking out the frilly, pink maid outfit that adverts its suitability for both genders. Kurusu gives a thoughtful hum, but his focus settles on you. For a second you worry he might actually ask you about the phone call, but when Kurusu starts heading towards Leblanc he asks you out of nowhere, “Are you interested in arts?”

     As you squint up at him, you think about a way for him to lead his questions somehow to your phone call with that starting point. You really are paranoid. “I mean it’s pretty, right? But that’s about all I can say.”

     “Yeah, it’s nice,” Kurusu agrees. “I’ve met someone who’s really passionate about it. An artist.”

     “Okay.” What else is there to say? “And?”

     Kurusu shrugs. “Just making small talk.”

     “Dodging my question, huh,” you joke. Kurusu manages a little, half-hearted smile. It makes you wonder if there is something specific he is expecting out of this all, something that exceeds your tutor-student deal in a way you can’t decipher yet.

     “The reading was really interesting, so thanks for inviting me,” he says after you turn into the narrow alley leading to Leblanc, its orange light the only warm source on the neon lit walkway.

     “Who knows, maybe I’ll see you in one of the psychology classes in two years.”

     “I’m not sure if that’s possible.” There’s a smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

     Frowning, you try to get a better look if it’s just the lights playing a trick on you. “Why shouldn’t it be? If you’re really into it, nothing should stop you from following that dream.” Oh God, now you sound exactly like Narukami.

     Kurusu considers your words, tugging at bangs falling into his eyes. “I mean, I may not be the one who gets to decide that in the end.” Another ambiguous statement. Again, you think about Kurusu’s parents, and wonder what events led him to live in an attic away from home.

     Eventually, you end up in front of the entrance. Behind the windows, you can see Boss cleaning cups and occasionally looking at the TV screen. The view is blocked when Kurusu takes a step forward.

     “Thanks again for today,” he says. “Next time, I'll think of somewhere to go.”

     “Bold of you to assume there’s a next time.”

     Kurusu looks like a kicked puppy, but quickly recovers with a slightly crooked smile. “Fortune favours the bold.”

     “She’s also a fickle friend.”

     Kurusu presses his lips into a thin line, probably thinking about a witty comeback. But then he succumbs to a yawn forcing its way out of him.

     “You really shouldn’t stay up too late, you know,” you propose. “I mean it’s Sunday tomorrow, but don’t make the same mistake as me. Sleep is important, you know.”

     “Yes, mom.”

     “No, really! And you better be prepared for tomorrow and do your homework or I’ll think about a nasty task for you.”

     “Yes, teach.”

     “Go in already, Kurusu. You’re not funny at all.”

     He smiles, but it’s tired. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that he disappears into the cafe, and you’re left to return to your own home where no one greets you with a little smile and a warm cup of coffee. Only the run down walls in an empty, cold room wait for your return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I read about if Japan convicts men for rape and oh boy that wasn’t fun at all.  
> Anywhoooo, it’s still a slow chapter, nothing great happens but things will pick up in the next.


	3. [Rank 3]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off: HAPPY NEW YEAR!! I hope everyone celebrated an amazing first day of 2019!  
> Secondly, I might change from 2nd personal narrator to 1st personal narrator! I think this might feel a lot more natural and smooth? Tell me what you think about it!
> 
> And most importantly!! Thank you everyone so much for the kudos and all the nice comments! I'm so happy I was able to work again on this story which I really really like and whatever happens, I'll see it through!

 

 

 

  Open mouthed, you stare at the little screen in your hands, the voices reaching you through a little bud in your left ear. Narukami does you the favour and taps a finger against your chin, successfully telling you to close your mouth.

     “What in the world is happening,” you mutter, pausing the news coverage of Ichiryusai Madarame’s confession of child abuse and plagiarism. That in itself is uprooting the foundation of the art world but two words keep replaying in your mind like a broken record. _Phantom Thieves_. Either their music just really _really_ touches people’s souls and pushes the word catharsis to a whole new level, or this really is an organisation capable of changing people’s hearts.

     “I don’t believe this,” you say. “Can you believe this?” You shove Narukami’s phone in his face. He gently pushes your hand down, the enthusiasm about being blinded by the blue light his screen emits akin to a cashier working the third night shift in a row. “Freaking unbelievable,” you mutter, pulling your hand back to rewind the video to rewatch it just to make sure you’ve heard right.

     “Something tells me you don’t share the mass’ enthusiasm,” Narukami says, reaching into the bag of sweets. One leg is leisurely sprawled over your lap as he switches through the TV channels, looking for an interesting documentary. “Why do you think this is so unbelievable?” That’s a lot of 'believe' you guys are throwing around at 10 in the morning on a Saturday, and something about it makes you feel really jittery.

     “A change of heart? Do I have to spell it out for you?” Your voice reaches uncomfortable heights, and your hands begin to flutter in anxious gesticulation like excited butterflies. “Let’s say hypothetically they’re capable of doing it with orthodox methods. Why would anyone shit deep into illegal stuff like Madarame even go along with it?”

     “I believe the news leaked a calling card saying they’d steal his twisted desires. Doesn’t sound like he gave it up voluntarily,” Narukami says matter-of-factly and you can see him exactly like this, ten years from now, sitting in the court, and dealing the accused person blow after blow with his arguments, infuriating them with his stoic expression. Somehow you thought he’d be a tad more passionate about this topic. Is stealing hearts even legal? Eventually, you lean back and put the phone away, pulling the bud out.

     “Well, good for the kids who are out of that crappy place. Hopefully now they’ll get something like a future,” you say, grabbing for the bag, but Narukami wrestles it out of your grip, and orders you to eat something decent that’ll get meat on your bones. You flip him off.

     “We’ll see how the case will be treated. One of my professors tries to study it as much as the responsible prosecutor allows.” Narukami stops at a documentary about spotted hyenas. You watch them play around and bite at each other, the narrator’s monotone voice quickly putting you back into a sleepy state. Out of nowhere, Narukami suddenly asks, “How’s tutoring going?”

     “Good. It’s fun. I just don’t really know how to feel about my student.”

     Narukami raises an eyebrow. “Feel?”

     “Think, I mean,” you quickly correct yourself, though right now everything points toward his existence as a brat in your dictionary. Who else just scribbles into someone else’s notes, not to mention bad cat puns. “He went to the reading with me last Saturday. I think he’s alright, but sometimes I can’t really say what he’s thinking.” It’s a little like with Narukami, but you keep that to yourself.

     Narukami gives a quiet hum and you’re glad he doesn’t ask further. There’s not much you can say anyway. The silence between you is filled with the narrator’s explanation of hyena’s nutrition, but you aren’t listening anymore. It’s been a while since you and Narukami had a full free day, and it’s started just like one might expect it: you haven’t done anything except laying on your couch and watching TV. A great start. You nearly doze off when a sharp slap on your left thigh gives you a heart attack. Narukami doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Come on, let’s go outside.”

     “But it’s Saturday!” you whine, and curl away from him. If you close your eyes, maybe he’ll disappear, and you won’t have to move at all today. But Narukami won’t have any of it. He starts pulling at your ankle, and before you can plant your face on the ground, you surrender and kick him.

     “Then see if there’s something interesting going on in Shibuya or Harajuku,” you say, and don’t miss the smug grin on Narukami’s face, so you throw a pillow after him. Swiftly, Narukami dodges with an easiness that might suggest it isn’t his first time. Showoff. Just before you’re about to get up to get ready, your phone buzzes in the cushions next to you. The very first letter on the screen is enough to make you automatically press on the red button. Beside you, Narukami watches you from the corner of his eyes, but doesn’t comment on it.

 

     It’s quiet outside, which is surprising because usually people spend their day off roaming through the streets. That is until you reach Shibuya Central Street and people are overrunning the shops and restaurants. The diner is packed, but you manage to bully some kids away from their table after making sure they’re done with their food. You humbly accept Narukami’s disapproving head shake, and order two bowls of Gyuudon, Narukami’s with extra meat because he’s still growing and that’s what boys his age need. After he judges you long enough for that decision, you move on to comfortable banter and chat about some of your fellow students; about pretty much anything except his upcoming internship he still hasn’t decided on where to go, and you don’t want to start an argument with telling him he should go to Tanaka’s Attorney Office.

     Around an hour later you’re ready to hit the streets. There are some shops you want to visit, and you should do that before Narukami decides to leave and with him your chance of someone carrying your bags. When the waitress comes to get the money, you place your hand on Narukami’s, who’s holding his purse, and push it away.

     “It’s okay,“ you say. “It’s on me.” Narukami’s suspicious eyebrow-raise is really uncalled for, and yet you can’t blame him. “Let me be your sugar daddy for an exchange.” He still looks very, very unimpressed.

     “It’s a thank you,” you finally say, pulling your hand back. “For putting up with me.”

     “There you go.” He smiles, and it does wonders to your belly. As kind as Narukami is, somehow his genuine smiles are a rarity. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Okay, you take back the ‘kind’-part, but there’s only so long you can be dissatisfied with him, when he gets up and ruffles your hair. He excuses himself to the restroom, and you wait for the waitress to bring the receipt, when a familiar curly, black haired head peaks inside the diner, followed by two teenagers wearing the same uniform. Your first instinct is to dive head first under the table, just like anytime you see someone you’re acquainted with, but then you remember you haven’t a) done something stupid in front of him (yet), nor b) had an uncalled one-night stand with him, so everything is fine. When Kurusu notices you, you wave, and he understands it as an open invitation to sit at your table. His friends hesitate for the briefest of seconds, just to appear polite, but they quickly follow him, obviously interested, and take the not so open space beside him so all three are cramped in the little booth opposite from you. That can’t be comfortable.

     “Hey there!” The girl is the first to reach out her hand, honouring you with a thousand watt smile that makes you want to shield your eyes. “I’m Ann!” You take her hand, and when she squeezes back with enough force to break your fingers, not giving you any of that too-shy-to-properly-shake-hands-crap, you’re pretty much a goner. God, she probably smells really good. Like flowers. It takes every ounce of your self-control not to smell your hand like a creeper. Akira gives you a questioning look when you stare daggers into him, jealous of how his shoulder presses into hers.

     “Ditching classes?” You grin and lean back, ignoring the pang of jealousy at how good all three of them look together. Kurusu leans forward, resting his arms on the table, reducing the space you’ve just created.

     “They ended earlier because of a staff meeting.” His eyes rest on the two empty glasses on the table, before he suspiciously unsuspicious looks around for the missing person.

     “What about you?” The blond guy to his right asks. “Ditching school yourself?”

     “School?” you say at the same time Kurusu nudges his friend with his elbow and whispers, “Ryuji.”

     Ryuji either plays dumb or really doesn’t get it. “What?” He also fails spectacularly at subtlety. Somewhere to his far left, Ann groans.

     “I didn’t know college was mandatory these days,” you say, and when realisation sinks into Ryuji, he gawks at you, then at Kurusu.

     “Dude, you’re friends with a college chick?!” he yell-whispers. Kurusu cringes. You cringe. Did Narukami fall into the toilet or why is he still not coming?

     “She’s my tutor,” Kurusu clarifies, avoiding the ‘friend’ part, and that’s cool. It’s totally okay. The sting in your chest is probably from something weird you’ve eaten and totally uncorrelated to what he just said. Guess now you can say goodbye to friendship bracelets and his entry in your friendship book.

     “Well, college sounds awesome!” Ann quickly adds, probably noticing the failure on Kurusu’s part as well. “What’s your major?”

     Sometimes you wish people would just ask if you liked your classes or the canteen food.

     “Psychology,” you mumble.

     “Oh, man! That’s so cool!” Ryuji jumps in his seat like a little kid allowed to ride the Ferris wheel. “Can you like … analyse my behavioural patterns and then connect that to a specific episode of my childhood?”

     All eyes are on Ryuji. He stares back. “Hey, what’s all the gawking for?”

     “I’m a scientist, not a wizard,” you say. “Also, maybe lay off from the TV shows you’re watching.”

     Ann shakes her head. “I’m just surprised he knows a big word like ‘behavioural’.”

     “Oh yeah? I know a lot of big words! Like, uh … hyper honder!”

     The silences stretches into uncomfortable territory. You’re afraid to break it first.

     “Hyper what even,” Ann asks, tapping her manicured fingers impatiently on the table.

     “Hypochondria?” Kurusu adjusts his glasses, blinking sheepishly. Did he pick that up from your notes? Did he actually read them?

     “Yeah, that’s what I said!”

     “Suuure.” Ann draws out the vocals, her words turning into a sing-song when she turns back to you. “So! Anything you can recommend us when we’ll apply next year?” Her interest and enthusiasm throws you off. You can’t really remember when you were doing in your last year of high school, and how you managed to get through that. Ryuji eyes her like he can’t believe the level of boot licking she’s capable off. Luckily, Narukami returns and saves you from giving an answer. He calls you, but when you turn around, he’s staring at Kurusu with an intensity that’s telling he is seconds away from clocking him. A glance back shows you, Kurusu is staring as much, but not at Narukami. His eyes are strained at some invisible spot above Narukami’s head, mouth slightly open in awe. Is this what people call love at first sight? Wait, does Kurusu even swing that way?

     “Oh, sorry! We didn’t mean to hold you up!” Ann is already pushing Ryuji to make him get out, and fill the space you’re about to give them. “Please tutor us as well once exams are around!”

     Kurusu finally turns his head away, and mumbles something to Ann you can’t hear. All your intention goes to how good they look next to each other, his head dipping to whisper something in her ear. Her eyes go wide for a fraction, before she squints and then the radiant smile is back in full force. Oh. God. Did he say something like “ _I can tutor you, if you know what I mean_ ,” because Kurusu totally looks like he’d go for something like that. Yup, he totally would, judging from how he notices you staring, and _winks_ like a bad boy straight out of an American romance movie ready to steal your girl. Yeah, you’re pretty sure he’d have been capable of stealing her if she hadn’t dumped your sorry ass first.

     “Well, gotta go.” Your bones pop when you stretch, demonstrating the young kids their impending doom in a couple of years. “And my advice? Don’t do drugs, kids.”

     Kurusu grins at you in what you can only describe as unbashful challenge. “See you tomorrow, teach.”

     When you turn to go, you see that Narukami is still staring at Kurusu. There’s something solemn in his expression, and the hint of a softness you’ve only seen when he talks about his niece. His goodbye is a soft, silent nod, and once your outside he instantly goes for the kill. “So that’s the kid you’re tutoring. Seems nice.”

     “I didn’t know your consciousness allowed you to lie.”

     He hums, amused. “I’m not a saint.”

     _Yes, you are_ , you think. _I want you to be a bit more of a bad person. Before your kindness strangles you_. “No, you’re right,” you say instead. “He’s a good kid.”

     “She said like an old woman.”

     Narukami’s reward is a kick to the shin, to which he answers with a laugh, and for that brief moment everything feels alright, the world is a peaceful place, the universe is kind to you. Inside your pocket, your phone vibrates once, indicating a message. While Narukami is talking, you sneak a tiny glance to skim the text. Six words punch like little needles through your eyes.

     _You have permission to see him. D._

     “Are you okay?” Narukami’s voice is distant, blurry. Drowning behind a rushing waterfall of hopes you’ve dried out years ago. The answer is stuck somewhere between your ribcage and throat, but without a hook you won’t be able to get it out. A hand lands on your shoulder, hoping to reassure, but instead it is a noose around your neck. You step away from Narukami. His hand falls back to his side.

     “I need to go.”

     “What’s wro—”

     “Forget it.”

     Whatever he calls after you drowns in the crowd after you dive into it, heading for the train station. It’s unfair. Narukami deserves better than this, but trust is held captive behind spiky bars somewhere deep inside your chest, and you don’t remember where you left the key. Not that it matters. What matters is that finally, you can go and see _him_ ; that in a short while, your world will slide back into its right order. All the way to the clinic, you feel a tight pulling in your chest towards the place. Your heart is longing for your other half and the meeting in sight sets your nerves on fire.

 

     It takes about half an hour until you reach Akasaka Station, and fifteen more until you’re standing in front of the Psychiatric Clinic. Just the sight of it is enough to turn your stomach upwards, planting a feeling of dread inside your ribcage where its roots are only inches away from worming into your heart. Inside, the stench of sanitiser is unbearable, but despite what this facility is supposed to do, most of the nurses and doctors ignore how you’re seconds away from vomiting on the floor. The woman sitting at the front desk is bored beyond measure, dismissing you with a form to fill out before they can let you into the visiting room. Between all those people waiting for their turn, you’re a powder keg about to explode, when finally, Dr. Murakami comes and picks you up, or at least that’s what you think, but when he doesn’t lead you to the designated room, and instead obstructs your view from the hallway behind him, you know immediately this won’t end good.

     “Apologies, but we cannot allow you to see the patient,” Murakami states. At least he has the decency to focus his attention on you, and not thumb through the charts clamped between his side and arm.

     “What? No.” This is the last thing you wanted to hear. “No, I was told I can come, and I will go and see him.”

     “I would let you, but as it is now, the patient is unstable. To prevent you from getting hurt during the visit, we will postpone it to a more appropriate day.”

     “He won’t hurt me,” you hiss, the dreadful plant inside you catching fire and scorching your insides. “Just give us five minutes.”

     “I can’t allow that,” he says, voice far away. “I’m sorry.”

     If only his sorry would be good for something, rather than just being hollow words he’s playing on a record over and over again. You outweigh the chances of getting committed to the same ward as _him_ if you attack the Doctor. They look immensely slim.

     “Can’t you at least tell me what’s wrong?” you make a last attempt. “Don’t I deserve to know?”

     Murakami stares at a chart, then drags his eyes back to you and sighs. “He returned to drastic measures we thought he’s finally stopped to do.” He doesn’t need to say more, and you don’t need to hear more. The picture of scars curving valleys into damaged skin sits right behind your eyes, the shudder wrecks your whole body. “I’m sorry,” he says like a parrot. “We’d hoped that his rehabilitation would go smoother. As for now, we are unsure of what caused the drawback.”

     “Maybe you guys could actually let him see his family. You ever considered that might help?”

     Murakami gives you a quiet, disapproving look, and yes, this may be not the first time him hearing a thing from a patient’s relative, but maybe it’s time to think about the reason people are complaining about that. Judging from the way his body already turns into the direction of the hall leading further into the building, this conversation is over, and with that, any hope of seeing your brother dies.

 

  
____________________________  
 

 

     “So the answer is -2, right?”

     “Uh huh.”

     “And now I can use this result for the next equation?”

     “Hmm.”

     “My cat can talk.”

     “Okay.”

     Golden silence fills the cafe for a moment, allowing your mind to replay yesterday’s conversation with Murakami without having to give noises as reply to whatever Kurusu wants. Okay, you might not be the most attentive tutor at the moment, but so far Kurusu hasn’t given you anything to worry about, so spacing out a little won’t damage your non-existent teacher reputation.

     It still bothers you, and after a night of restless sleep and stumbling thoughts, you always come to the conclusion that your parents must have known. They must have been the very first to know, and decided to let you go anyway; to see for yourself what they knew you wouldn’t have believed them. It’s the only thing that makes sense. If they’d told you that your brother’s condition has worsened, you’d have called it bullshit, but a doctor; his doctor … maybe his condition really has worsened … or hasn’t been good from the very beginning. You don’t want to be paranoid, but this being a scheme from your parents and the hospital authorities might just be your kind of luck. Or rather, you wouldn’t put it past them, which pulls everything to a whole new level of screwed up. Maybe you should talk to Narukami about corruption in healthcare.

     The bell rings, and its clear sound manages to dissipate the fog in your head. When your eyes focus back to what’s in front of you, you notice Kurusu is looking at you with an almost methodical glare, like a scientist might regard the animal he is about to dissect.

     “What?” you say, shifting uncomfortably. To keep your hands busy, you reorganise the stack of paper that doesn’t need reorganisation.

    “Something is on your mind,” Kurusu unhelpfully declares, putting his pen down. He’s sitting opposite from you, one arm moves in a stroking motion as he pets Morgana who’s sleeping on his lap. “I don’t think we can continue like this.”

     A dozen excuses wait on the tip of your tongue for your mouth to unleash them, but Kurusu regards you with such a piercing gaze, you feel the carefully constructed walls crumble.

     “Okay,” you say like it doesn’t hurt your pride. “You’re right. Sorry.”

     “You don’t have to apologise,” he says, cleaning his learning material from the table. Morgana gives a protesting meowl, glaring up at him at being woken. “Everyone has a bad day sometime.”

     “I’ll think of a special exercise for our next meeting,” your offer. “So just revise the subjects, and we’ll talk more later.”

     “Special exercise.” Kurusu smiles. “Exciting.”

     “Don’t get your hopes up.” But it elicits a little smile from you as well, and from the way you notice Kurusu’s eyes light up, he’s fulfilled his goal.

     Saving you both an awkward pause, you finally get up. “Well, enjoy your free evening. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

     But before you can even take a step towards the exit, Kurusu quickly says, “You don’t have to go.” He glances in Boss’s direction. “We could hang out.”

     “Hang out?” Apparently, you’ve become a parrot. The clock on the wall next to the coffee bean shelves tells it’s just past seven, so technically there would be one more hour of tutoring. There’s no harm in getting to know your student better, so shrugging, you say, “Sure.”

     Kurusu gets up. “We’ll go upstairs,” he tells Boss who stares daggers at Kurusu.

     “Don’t try to do anything funny to her,” he says to Kurusu, which surprises you, because yeah, he’s the guy, but you’re older, so shouldn’t he be saying that to you? “I’ll call you once dinner’s done, so be ready.” He shoos you away, and goes back to reading the newspaper. Feeling nervous all of a sudden, you follow Kurusu upstairs, hearing the soft pitter-patter of Morgana following you upstairs. The attic is a big, spacious room with little furniture save for a bed, a table, two shelves, an old TV and a couch that’s seen better days. He sits on it, and looks expectantly up at you like a puppy waiting to be pet. You take the seat beside him, looking for something interesting in his room.

     “You’re a fan of Risette?” you ask, noticing the poster on the opposite wall. She looks really cute.

     “It was a present. I don’t know much about her only that she’s famous.”

     “Ahh, unfortunate. I know someone who’s friends with her. I could have arranged a date for you.” Jokingly, you nudge his side with your elbow. Kurusu gives a hollow sound as response.

     “Did something happen yesterday after you left?” So he’s going straight to the point. Baffled with how fearless he tackles the question, you can’t help but shift a little away from him. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Kurusu turns around and looks at you. Everything about him right now is so alert, so keen, you feel exposed to a sharp-witted animal; a falcon ready to pounce on a mouse.

     “Did you bring me up here just to ask me about that?” You don’t want to sound like you expected something different, but well _that_ you didn’t expect either. Why is he so interested?

     “I thought you might want to talk about it.” He shrugs, relaxes beside you.

     “And what makes you think you’re the person I want to confide in?”

     Kurusu hesitates, but instead of surrendering and retreating back to safety, he goes for a full assault. “Because we’re friends.”

     Oh, boy. His words are an arrow driving through your heart. You didn’t know you wanted to hear those words until he said them, and your chest fills with fluttering butterflies and singing birds praising the day. Biting your lower lip, you try not to grin.

     “That’s … well. I’m just not good at this.” You swing your hand around the air, not elaborating if you mean talking about what’s bothering you or friendship. Kurusu nods like he understand it’s probably both.

     “Okay. Let’s just do something to get it off your mind then.” He gets up and stretches. You stare holes at his wall to avoid seeing how his shirt rides up and exposes a stripe of pale skin. “What do you usually do to clear your head?”

     You sink back into the cushions, finally looking up at him when his arms fall back to his sides. “I don’t know. Listen to music?”

     Kurusu perks up at that, and quickly goes to the shelf opposite the couch where from the lowest rack he pulls out an ancient record player. After shoving stuff and Morgana, who hisses and flings his tiny paws at him, off his table (wait, is that a lockpick?), he plugs it in. White noise fills the room, then the unmistakable intro of a barber shop song starts and you sit up straighter. “No way,” you say. Kurusu nods, grinning. “Yes way.”

     “Bobby Darin? How old are you really, Kurusu?” you say but you’re already smiling from ear to ear. Ignoring your question, he carefully moves his hips, then steps around, and it takes a moment for your brain to understand he’s dancing. Nothing extravagant, just moving in sync with the melody, snapping his fingers whenever the notes end. He moon-walks, freaking _moon-walks_ to where you sit, then stretches his hand out to you. “Can I steal this dance?”

     Your brain panics, betrays you, and goes full Highschool Musical. “I don’t dance.”

     It turns out Akira Kurusu is your soulmate. He says, “I know you can,” and you wonder where he’s been all your life.

     “Not a chance.” But Kurusu has already taken your hand, and pulls you to your feet, bringing your smaller body flush against his. Okay, wow. That you did not expect. And of course, as it is in those situations, you don’t miss how good he smells. Coffee (what a surprise), but also something sweeter underneath it. Or is it spicy? Black pepper maybe?

     Good thing you don’t need to focus on moving, because Kurusu is calling the shots and dictates the rhythm, moves you around the room, pulls you forth, then back, then gently pushes his fingers into your side to spin you around.

     Whatever this kind of magic is, you’ve never expected it to work on you. It’s a lazy, slow dance, and it reminds you so much of Kurusu, only lazy isn’t the right term for him. Maybe patient? Waiting like a cat for the right moment to strike and just like that, your thoughts are confirmed, because once you’re finally somewhat comfortable with your legs moving like that, you’re brave enough to look up. His face is a lot closer than you expected.

     Kurusu dibs his head forward, almost bumping his forehead against yours. “Are you nervous?”

     The question makes you stumble more than the dancing, and just like that, he easily kicks down any sort of confidence you assumed you had near him.

     “I’m just not really good at this,” you say, and dodge the question which is pretty much the same as saying Yes. Something lights up in Kurusu’s eyes. You’re an open book to him, and that is the scariest part.

     The record player sings the next song; it’s slow, sensual and automatically, your bodies come together and drift slowly, and you want to follow all cliches and rest your head against Kurusu’s shoulder, but resist the call in the end. The lines “ _oh dream maker, you heart breaker_ ” carry your swaying bodies, and you wonder if it’s foreshadowing to how this will end— this what? This is nothing. From beside the bed, Morgana is watching you with a strange gleam in his piercing blue eyes, like he knows exactly what’s going on between you two, but can’t approve of it.

     “You know,” Kurusu says, a startling sound against the soft music; more so because you can actually feel his voice rumbling in his chest, and you drag your eyes back to his face. “I’ve only done this with my granny before.”

     With any other person, you would have laughed at that. But by now, you’ve learnt Kurusu isn’t just like any other person.

     “It’s something more guys should do,” you admit, and then because your legs tingle and you feel feathery, you add, “it’s charming.”

     Kurusu bows his head, and smiles like he knows of course it is, the smug ass. “Why thank you.”

     “No, but really. Your grandma sounds like a cool person.”

     “She is.” He holds his breath. “She was.”

     Oh, no. “I’m sorry.”

     Kurusu gives a half-hearted shrug. “It happens to the best of us,” he says, but his eyes show sadness. You tighten your grip on his hand. He responses with a squeeze.

     “I just wish my parents would talk about her from time to time,” he continues. “After she left, they sort of stopped caring.”

     “Well, everyone deals in their own way with grief. Some do it better, some worse.”

     “But just ignoring it ever happened?” Kurusu replies quietly.

     “What can you do, it’s a natural mechanism to protect yourself from more pain. I guess there’s only so much you can endure before your brain decides it’s enough.”

     “Is that the therapist talking?” Kurusu asks with an edge to his voice. “Or you?”

     You’re surprised he’s mature enough to know there’s a distinction between those. Instead of answering, you say, “Maybe they think one day you’ll understand. Parents tend to underestimate their children on things like that.”

     “Is that something you’ve experienced yourself? With your parents, I mean.”

     “Uhm, not it’s hmm—” Make it even more obvious that you’re lying. “Something I’ve read about.” Great job.

     Kurusu gives you the I-know-you’re-lying-but-I’ll-roll-with-it-look. “Okay. What kind of people are they by the way.”

     _By the way_ , he says, like he didn’t actually mean to end up with that topic. Somehow you get the feeling that’s been his goal from the very beginning.

     “Just your average people.” You smile and bat your eyelashes like a good girl who’s not lying.

     “Well, average is a very broad term.” He smiles as well and bats his eyelashes back at you like a good boy who’s not provoking a fallout.

     “Normal people with normal lives,” you elaborate, growing impatient. “Nothing special about them.” Which is the understatement of the century.

     Kurusu exhales slowly, then releases you and steps back. It feels like you’re falling. The spell is broken.

     “Okay, I won’t ask anymore if it bothers you that much.” He’s right with that, but you don’t understand why he sounds so offended.

     “Why are you sulking, Kurusu?”

     As response, he jerks his hand up; the very first rash movement you see him doing since you’ve meet. “I’m not sulking,” he says, failing to convince you. “I’m just— Maybe I thought you’d trust me a little more after I told you about what bothers me with my parents.”

     You pale at that, then feel a smoldering heat scorch your face. “Well, that’s not how it works! You can’t just expect people to trust you with their problems!”

     Something triumphant flares in his eyes, and he raises his chin in blatant challenge. “So you admit there is a problem.”

     The way his mind jumps to conclusion leaves you speechless. “Kurusu, you’re just—” _So insufferable_. _Annoying_.

     You retreat back to the couch, and slump into the cushions with an exasperated huff. Irritated by his probing, you snap with more heat than you want, “What’s wrong with you? Just why do you care so much?”

     The mistake is done, unrepairable. Kurusu’s eyes widen, then something in them shuts close, and the distance between you becomes palpable. But then a little, unguarded sigh escapes him, so vulnerable and soft, you feel something tighten in your chest. Again, like the day before, he closes the distance, and sits next to you, resting his elbows on his knees as he hunches forward slightly, face resting in his hands. “Because I cannot _not_ care,” Kurusus says quietly. He looks at you through his fingers, and you can see from the way the skin around his eyes pulls up that he’s smiling.

     _Oh Akira_ , you think. _People like you aren’t meant to bloom in a world like this._

     The fight leaves your body, and after that you feel tired and defeated; defeated by something as little as a sad smile.

     “I’m sorry,” you mumble. “Like I said, I’m bad at this stuff.”

     Kurusu lowers his hands. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. Usually, I’m not— I mean, I shouldn’t be so pushy.” He gives you a quick glance; one that holds a whole world of unspoken words. You sit like that, facing each other and smiling awkwardly, until Boss’s voice rings up, calling you both to come down for dinner.

     “Offering you food already,” Kurusu notices. “I think he likes you.”

     “Uhm, I don’t know if I can stay.” You take a quick glance at your phone. Yup, it’s past eight. How does dancing and screaming at each other take up so much time. “But his curry usually smells so good.”

     “It tastes even better.”

     Kurusu wiggles his eyebrows at you. Damned be his incredible powers of persuasion. “Fine, you got me with that one, Kurusu.”

     His grin is quickly replaced with a frown. You wait for him to say something, but he only manages to stuff his hands in his pockets.

     “What?” you ask.

     “Haven’t we reached the point where you call me Akira?” he quietly asks, shifting from right to left. “I mean. If you want. It’s no big deal.” His half-hearted shrug fails to help him look casual. So do his doe-like eyes blinking at you from behind his glasses.

     “Fine,” you groan, “you got me with that one, Akira.”

     His eyes light up, and he gives you such a disarming smile, it hurts your chest.

     From below, Boss calls again, and you’re finally able to break eye contact, unsure if you want to know the answer why your chest feels it’s about to explode from your rapid beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus:
> 
> “Try to be a little less obvious,” Morgana says, curling his tail around Akira’s ankle. “But I have to admit, you’ve got some guts being so nosy.”  
> Akira nods, running a hand through his hair. His thoughts jump all over the place, and he tries not to recall how warm she is. Not how good she smells. Not how soft her hands are. Eventually, he asks, “Wanna watch Highschool Musical later?”  
> Morgana groans.


	4. Info

Some of you have heard of it, some of you are victims of it.

The EU has passed Article 13.

 

With that, I thank all of you who supported this story. I wish I could continue working on it and many other stories, because I really, really wanted to share them with you, be it in this fandom or others.

The next chapter is almost done, and even though I'm not happy with it, I wanted to give it to you and continue this journey with you. I might still upload it later, as a Thank You for your patience, your love, your support, but it certainly will be the last before the upload filters either deny uploading more or take the story down completely.

 

Maybe we'll see each other in a couple of years, once the EU realizes what harm they've done to creators.

 

 

Thank you again for everything.


	5. [Rank 4]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks a ton to everyone leaving kudos and commenting on this story.
> 
> I'm not really happy with this one, even though it finally drives the plot forward a bit. But I think you can notice that it's been a long time since I've worked on it and there was a huge break between starting and finishing this piece of headache.
> 
> Still, I hope you'll enjoy it and that I can bring you the next chapter(s) quicker, especially before Article 13 does it bad magic and I can't upload anymore.
> 
> Thanks again everyone, and love to you all!!!!
> 
> P.S. Also I know there's going to be an inconsistency with Reader calling Narukami "Yu" in dialogue, but in the actual narration he remains "Narukami" and Akira being Akira in both dialogue and narration. It just feels a lot more comfortable to me, but if it really bothers you, I can change it to Yu completely.
> 
> Also warning: There will probably be a big, kinda illogical time jump in the next chapter because I suck at plotting. There you go. That's the truth. Sorry again that this all feels so chopped off.

 

 

 

 

 

> **[you]:** _We still need to talk about what happened._
> 
> **[you]:** _I can see you’re reading this._
> 
> **[you]:** _You can’t just ignore me._
> 
>  

     The clear lack of response is evidence enough that yes, your dad can ignore you, and he is very motivated to do so. Even a whole month after the incident, he’s still avoiding you like a contagious disease, the exact opposite from your mother who clings to you like a very persistent octopus, demanding you to call her every day. It does the exact opposite from calming your nerves, and unlike anything before it draws Narukami’s suspicion like a beacon. You didn’t want to, but to redirect his attention, you used the only strategy you knew would hit him critically: You called him Yuu. Hearing his first name for the very first time, Narukami looked like you were trying to sell him drugs.

     “Who are you, and where is the real one?” he’d asked, face blank of expression, but his eyes had betrayed him, lighting up with joy that had squeezed your heart to walnut size. After four years, it’s long due, especially when it took you only a couple of weeks to reach that level of closeness with Akira. Though Akira shouldn’t be the touchstone for a delicate business like this. You’ve learnt Akira is someone people open up to dangerously quickly. His little, honest smiles are keys unlocking every door; whenever he throws his head back and laughs, people stop breathing for the tiniest seconds and stare, mesmerised and with a world full of possibilities opening up before them. It leaves you with a very strange feeling, one that warms your chest, but at the same time scares you to inspect it more closely, because the answer will surely lead to forbidden territory. Already you know that what you feel towards Akira isn’t something you can easily look past or ignore.  
  
     The realisation came slowly, but in the end inevitable like sand running down in an hourglass. The fact that you can relax around him in ways you don’t even dare to do while hanging out with other friends has become very suspicious to you. Especially since you’ve started hanging out in his attic a couple of weeks ago. The puzzled look Boss sends your way whenever you pass him before heading upstairs weighs just as much as the demanding one of the young fortune telling lady in Shinjuku trying to guilt trip you into buying more of her self made lucky soaps you really don’t need more of as one of your drawers is already close to bursting with how many you’ve squeezed inside. You’re pretty sure Boss is onto you, but for some reason he hasn’t called the Child Protective Service yet, and stupid as you are, you’re pushing your luck further. Which of course doesn’t solve your problem at all.

     Learning little personal things about Akira feels like opening the Pandora’s box. You’ve learnt he has this weird habit of asking Morgana questions and looking at him with a serious face expecting an answer before he remembers you’re in the same room and talking to a cat isn’t considered a normal thing— and still, that doesn’t leave him flustered; you’re not sure Akira even knows that word, because he just laughs, shakes his head, and then proceeds like nothing happened. According to his book shelf, he’s quite well-read. You spy cultural magazines about movies and theatres, books about language of flowers, efficient time management and fishing. Novels by authors from different countries build a wall on the highest rack, their familiar names and titles a welcome distraction from whenever Akira does something that requires you intensely staring at his face. Breathing for example. His room is littered with little discreet secrets you try not to dwell on too long like the tools on his work desk or all the dirty laundry covered in strange black goo. All those things don’t change the fact that his room still doesn’t look anything like a place a teenager should occupy. It doesn’t bother Akira, but even so, you occasionally sneak in basic living necessities like a small garbage bin, a pot with tulips, a white piggy bank and a desk lamp. Either Akira accepts everything without commenting or he thinks all this stuff has been there all this time.

     Another thing you’ve learnt about Akira is that he does not speak about his past and all the circumstances that lead up to him living in the attic above Leblanc. Once you tried to ask indirectly about that, but he immediately saw through you and for the rest of the study session you were rewarded with a cool, tight-lipped smile. It’s just as much of a delicate topic as the relationship with your family, and sometimes you can imagine the baggage you both are carrying with every secret weighing on your shoulders, clearly visible and yet both of you refuse to talk about it and choose to ignore the blatant obstacles you both stumble over rather than work together to put them away. Ignoring problems has always been one of your special traits you’re unrivalled at, so it’s no surprise that this is your tactics of approach regarding the budding feelings for Akira.  
  
     And just like that, a chance to put you miles away from facing what exactly you feel towards him comes sooner than expected. Talk about an upcoming party has slithered around the campus for a couple of days and you’ve planned your complete week just around it so you can go and get mindlessly drunk. You leave the dormitory around 8. After a day spent going through your texts and revising notes, you  depart without a guilty conscious, especially with exams approaching steadily. On your way to Ginza you get some additional booze, scrolling through messages from Narukami who tells you to come around if you miss the last train. It’s so sweet, especially because you know he isn’t a big fan of those parties. He probably knows what you’re up to and yes, one-night stands certainly don’t belong to your proudest moments, but right now you want to think of anything but Akira or that your dad still owes you an explanation you know he will give you wrapped up nicely in lies.

     The location this time is inside a shared apartment of two of your fellow students. Atsui and Samui, prodigy twins known for their mean serves, finally celebrate their birthday and oh boy, it is going to be a wild one. As kids from two highly esteemed doctors, their apartment is everything you wish for, and if you wouldn’t have dignity, you’d probably leech off your parents’ money as well. Their entrance area is bigger than your kitchen. Someone pushes a plastic cup with beer in your hand, then sends you into the lion’s den with an encouraging, little push. A gigantic table in the middle of the room is already surrounded by students playing beer pong, screaming at each other. The majority of the assembled already has had a few drinks judging from the hollering. The music blasts with a deep bass vibrating through your whole body as you slither around groups of people, receiving greeting claps on your shoulder here and bone braking hugs there.

     The superficiality of it all is the appeal, the sole motivation driving you to join these gatherings. Empty promises and half felt concerns are exactly what you crave right now, the sheer lack of emotional responsibility towards these people that will forget everything you say the next morning. It fills you with a strange feeling, like you’re floating in a bubble, separated from everyone without fearing they’ll pop it and expose you. It’s safe and easy, maybe lazy but exactly what you need right now.

     You look for familiar faces, and find one immediately, though it doesn’t exactly make you jump in joy. On the other end of the room you notice Tadashi, a guy you’ve met during one of your very rare visits to a college sport course in your first semester. Somehow you managed to stay in contact after all those years, and now he greets you by throwing a chicken wing in your direction. It lands with a splat at the wall behind you. You flip him off.

     Unsurprisingly, after too many rounds of drinking games, you end up in his apartment somewhere in Akihabara. You’ve barely passed the door when Tadashi’s hands find their way on your hips and in your hair, his mouth draws a hot path from your lips to your neck where they find a spot to settle and mark. Caged between a wall and his warm body, your fingers impatiently tug at his shirt until it’s off, landing forgotten somewhere on the ground. Tadashi’s training pays off, he easily swipes you up, pulling your legs around his waist. Seconds later you land on his bed, bouncing and giggling. It’s been so long since you’ve felt the intimate warmth of another body, every nerve is on fire and tense with expectation. Once things really go down, it becomes difficult to focus on him when your mind is occupied with something— some _one_ else. The body on you changes into a dead weight pressing down on you, lips scrapping your skin. Fingers inside you try to bring you over the edge only to let you fall alone, alone and what usually feels like an exciting trip is suddenly a rollercoaster ride you want to get over with as soon as possible.

     His fingers travel from your neck to your chin, your cheeks and he conducts your face to the side to plaster kisses all over your jaw and that moment changes everything. You notice his slender, long fingers caressing your skin, working you apart from inside and they remind you of a different set of fingers, just as long and slender— and that’s your breaking point.

  
  
     The sound of a water boiler wakes you from a foggy dream. It takes a moment to remember where you are, the dozen faces of American musicians in posters on unfamiliar walls watching your every move as you get up and throw a blanket around your body. An off key hum lures you into the kitchen, where slim rays of sunshine draw blurry lines on the ground. It’s enough to make you squint and groan, the light too much for your eyes and hangover mind still trying to put together the images from last night.

     In front of the counter top, Tadashi is standing barefoot, preparing coffee. When he notices your frowning face, he offers you a cigarette with a crooked grin. Usually, you’d decline, but since everything has been going downhill lately, you succumb and indulge in one. The nicotine soothes your nerves to a straight line, allowing to hold up an easy conversation despite how awkward you expected it to be.

     “You really thought the plot line was good?” Tadashi raises an eyebrow at you, thumbing on his iPhone in search for a summary of the TV show you’ve both seen. The ash hangs dangerously at the tip of his cigarette, but you can’t find an ashtray. “It feels like there are a thousand plot holes.”

     “Well, it’s not like it has to make lots of sense? It’s a kid’s show?” The lack of immediate response tells you he thinks differently, but somehow you still feel smug about it, and take another sip from your coffee. That is until Tadashi, way too casually, asks, “By the way, who’s Akira?”

     You stare at him. Tadashi stares back. The only thing you manage is a stupid, “Huh?”

     The corners of Tadashi’s mouth jump. He leans back against the counter, his slim hips resting against the edge as he slurps his coffee unnecessarily loud like he wants to prove something. “Hey, I’m not judging. Just curious about the lucky fella.”

     “You mean—,” you start, but no matter how you think about continuing, you know it’ll just get worse. “You’re not saying I—”

     Tadashi’s grin widens. “Oh, you did. It was like—,” he curls his fingers into a fist and then snaps them open like an explosion, “you became a lot more excited, if you know what I mean.”

     “Oh God, this isn’t really happening,” you groan, pressing your palms against your eyes. If you can’t see him, he can’t see you, and you’re saved from an embarrassing conversation. But Tadashi has the complete opposite in mind and instead of remaining silent during your mental breakdown, he probes further, “So, do I know him?”

     God, you hope he doesn’t. Anything else would mean the end of you. But you can’t say it’s impossible for him to know Akira because he’s still in high school, so instead you settle on a vague truth. “No, he’s someone from work. By the way, did you read Lahey’s text? Can I get your notes? Cool, thanks!” You flee to his room, ignoring the blank expression he throws at you that clearly shows how bad you are at changing topics. Inside, you quickly dress even though you’re in desperate need of a shower. Judging from how hot you feel, your face must be on fire.

     Thousand thoughts stumble through your brain, each full of knots and no loose threads in sight, so you don’t even know where to start. Thinking about Akira is one thing. Imagining having sex with him should put you in prison. Hypothetically speaking, if this is a crush, and here you shudder because crushes are for teenagers, how can it escalate so quickly? To be fair, yes you were drunk, so maybe that shouldn’t count, but the images of him towering above you, his grey sly eyes eating you up while his mouth maps your body— it’s all too clear, the lines too sharp. This can’t happen again, you won’t allow it.

     Thankfully, Tadashi doesn’t say anything else when you return. You exchange goodbyes, mentioning meeting up some time again soon, but you both know that won’t happen, and that’s fine. The foundation of your relationship is based on on and off meetings that are just perfect because there is no expectations, no promises to keep. It’s easy because you both avoid complications, and that somehow makes Tadashi the perfect boyfriend candidate. Well, not for you, but there’s certainly someone out there for him.

     On your way home, you still think about the night and what it might mean for the future. How are you supposed to look Akira in the eyes and not be reminded of how you shamelessly moaned his name. The challenge becomes unexpectedly harder when your phone vibrates with a message. Akira’s name blinks in white letters, leaving you with a dreadful feeling in your stomach.

  

> **[Akira]:** _this is an emergency_
> 
> **[Akira]:** _mayday, mayday_
> 
> **[Akira]:** _call 911_
> 
> **[you]:** _What_
> 
> **[Akira]:** _help, send help! i got two cards for cake knight rises! someone has to go with me!_

     You stare at the message, failing to see the problem. Why doesn’t he ask Ryuji or Ann?

  

> **[you]:** _So ask your friends?_
> 
> **[Akira]:** _i'm asking u? u r a friend?_

     He really shouldn’t be able to make your heart jump with such simple sentences, and yet it stumbles in your chest like a hiker on foreign terrain.

  

> **[you]:** _When?_
> 
> **[Akira]:** _is that a yes??_
> 
> **[you]:** _Depending on when. I’m supposed to teach you stuff, or did you forget?_
> 
> **[Akira]:** _let’s consider it a field trip_
> 
> **[you]:** _How about we don’t and just go about it the same as always?_
> 
> **[Akira]:** _objection_
> 
> **[you]:** _Denied._
> 
> **[Akira]:** _:(_
> 
> **[Akira]:** _why so mean? i deserve a reward after nailing my finals._
> 
> **[you]:** _And I deserve a pay raise, but we don’t always get what we want._
> 
> **[Akira]:** _as the gentleman that i am, i'll even pay for your popcorn_
> 
> **[you]:** _Sold. As long as we don’t end up in one of those late night screenings and the police make me responsible for dragging a minor around at this hour._
> 
> **[Akira]:** _sounds illegal. i'm in._
> 
> **[you]:** _Akira, no._
> 
> **[Akira]:** _akira yes_

     Saying No to Akira is harder than backflipping from the second floor without breaking your ankles, and you’re sure he knows you can’t resist him any longer judging from how he’s spamming _please_ for the next thirty seconds, and after that an additional twenty more with _thanks_ after you finally agree. After deciding where to meet, you hurry home to take a shower and change into new clothes. There’s still some time left, so you check your messages. Apart from the usual suspects, a.k.a your mom, some fellow students and Narukami, Iori also send you a notification with a link, urging you to check out a fan page of a big cosplay group. But when the site finally loads, it’s the actual Phan-Site of the Phantom Thieves, filled with dozens discussion forums and comments. Right at the top is a red bar, above a question that makes you frown: [ _Are the Phantom Thieves just?_ ]

Now that you think about it, you haven’t heard from them since the incident with Madarame back in May. Two months have passed, and they feel more like a distant childhood memory rather than the latest breaking news covered by every TV channel. You wonder what they’re up to, or if they’re still around, and judging from some users, they’re also unsure about their whereabouts. At least one question you can answer pretty easily, and that is a big No on them being just. Whatever tricks they pull to make the people confess, it doesn’t put them above the law or allow them to go on with their unorthodox methods. Hopefully the police can get some leads on them and things will settle down once they’re locked up.

     Once it’s finally time to go, you’re actually relieved to get outside again and take a break from your readings, the black letters starting to merge into one indistinguishable shape in front of you.

     Shibuya is surprisingly calm for the evening hour, ignoring all the students gathering after school. The slowly approaching heat wave the weather forecasts warn about starts showing in shorter skirts, thinner clothes and dozens of pony tails bouncing from left to right. You wait at the meeting point, a small alley leading to an airsoft shop, when someone calls your name, and you look up, expecting to see Akira. He either went through a facial surgery during the last couple of days you haven’t seen him, or that man dressed in a cheap suit with a slim chin and sunken in cheeks approaching you right now is someone entirely different. Your brain fails to see how or why this guy knows your name, when he reaches you and grins like a maniac salesman trying to get rid of some shady goods.

     “Interested in making easy money? No questions asked, no names. Lots of cash.” A heavy hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing. It feels like a noose around your neck.

     _This isn’t really happening, is it?_ Dumbfounded, you stare at his hand, then his face, outweighing the benefits of either punching or kicking him. Hookers offering girls jobs isn’t a rare thing in Shibuya, but in broad daylight? He’s either really desperate or really full of himself, but the little detail that makes everything a lot more absurd is that he knows your name and it sends cold shivers down your spine.

     “Okay, I’ll give you two seconds to take your hands off me, or I will put my shoe through your face,” you warn him, succeeding to sound a lot braver than you feel. Warning bells go off in your head when he doesn’t move. You shrug his hand off, and take one nice big step away, but he follows you and closes the distance like a magnet drawn to its opposite pole.

     “How the fuck do you know me,” you say, now unable to stop the panic from seeping into your voice. The man laughs; a sharp, unpleasant sound easily drowned in the buzzing chatter of people walking past the alley, totally unaware of what’s happening in there.

     “We know everything about you,” he says with a lazy smile, digging a bony finger just under your collarbone. “Your name, where you live. Unlucky for you, you’re all buddy buddy with the wrong people.”

     You don’t even know that many, and from those you call friends none strike you as people acquainted with the dark side of Tokyo. Which really makes you wonder how they even know about your existence in the first place.

     The man drags his eyes to a spot behind you, and when he leans in, you smell the sour odour of booze and nicotine. “Tell Kurusu he better has our Boss’s money ready due or he’ll find his friends’ numbers in our booking register.” With a greasy smile, he vanishes in the shadows between the skyscrapers, leaving you with spinning thoughts of What the fuck, _what the fuck, what the actual fuck_ , until someone grabs your arm and yanks you out of the back alley. The worst scenarios run in high speed resolution through your head, but you gasp in relieve when you see it’s just Akira’s familiar face looming over you, quickly followed by a screeching “What the fuck?!” and a punch to his arm.

     At least Akira doesn’t look like he’s offended; no, it seems that he’s anticipated something like that, and you realise he must have seen you with the hooker.

     “What was that? What money? In what shady business are you involved?” There are too many questions, but Akira per usual talks too little to give you all the answers. Right now, he just looks over your head to where the man disappeared, and there’s something in his eyes you can’t read because it’s something you’ve never associated with Akira before: Danger. A shadow jumps across his eyes, dark enough to dim the grey, smooth surface and turn it into a charcoal storm. Somewhere in the back of your head you register his finger tips still pushing too hard into your skin, but the pain is swallowed by this intense feeling of anxiety and worry. Akira remains silent and pulls you deeper into the light flooded streets of Shibuya, where people laugh and enjoy their time regardless of what you’ve just been through.

     “Hey, can you talk to me?” you call to Akira, but he keeps his eyes trained on an invisible path before him, his mouth pressed into a thin, white line. “Hey, Kurusu.” You pull your arm back, he tightens his grip in return, and for the first time you wonder if he is choking on his secrets just as much as you are.

     “Kurusu,” you try again, then softer, “Akira.”

     Finally, he slows down and turns around. The fire in his eyes is gone, replaced by a dim light that is lost in the reflection of his glasses.

     “Come on.” It’s your turn to guide him now, gently pulling at his hand. You find a narrow alleyway with vending machines standing side by side like colourful soldiers. Armed with two canned coffees, you sit beside Akira on a narrow railing, and place the cool can on his thigh until he finally takes it from you. The silence grows into a palpable entity with fangs ready to strike, so you wait until Akira is ready to face it, lying to yourself that whatever he is going to tell you, it won't be that bad.

     After what feels like an eternity, Akira shifts slightly so his knees face towards you, and just like his body opens up to you, so does his mouth. “I kind of got into trouble with the yakuza,” he says with a suspicious lack of emotions. “And now they want three million yen until July 7th.”

     Somewhere behind you the beast growls, snarling how much better the silence has been in contrast to whatever this is. But then you realise it’s just a dog barking somewhere on the main street and you exhale slowly.

     “Okay, that is…” _Insane, suicidal_. “That’s crazy. What happened exactly?”

     Slowly, Akira raises his eyes. They’re hollow and send a shudder down your spine. “You have your secrets, and I have mine,” he declares.

     The way he’s staring at you, guarded and with a raised chin, his shoulders stiff like brittle marble ready to crumble at the tiniest collision, you can see he’s eagerly waiting for you to push him away. The only thing coming to your mind though is, “What kind of an answer is that? And no, don’t turn away from me!” You snatch his chin before he turns his head, digging a thumb into his skin just below his lower lip. Akira parts his lips in a little, silent O. “This is serious, so talk to me.”

     Akira considers you for a long moment, somehow perfectly holding still. The only movement comes from his tongue, quickly darting out to lick his lower lip, and you swallow a strange sound threatening to escape your throat.

     “You mean just like you talk to me?” he quietly shoots back, blowing a perfect hole in your composed mask. For a second, you’re speechless and your brain is completely void of any decent arguments to show him how those things are completely unrelated. But you’ve waited too long.

     The water named reason evaporated and now there’s no way to stop the fuse from burning down.

     “If you really think that this is the same as me—” you start, your heart throbbing painfully like a bird trying to escape; too loud, too hard, too much. Just faintly, you’re aware that it isn’t the tip of your thumb against his skin anymore, but your nail digging a sharp, crescent curve into his chin because your fingers are trembling. “— that this is really the same as me refusing to tell you about my parents abusing my brother, then you are wrong. Wrong, and very, very cruel, Akira.”

     All your breath leaves your lungs, while Akira’s becomes stuck in his throat. You pull your hand back like he’s burnt you, and on a metaphoric level, he has. You hate him for that, and you hate your body even more because after this, it doesn’t move. The anger overshadows your flight instinct and stays rooted like it wants to fight. You feel like throwing up.

     After a whole minute of silence, Akira finally manages a small, dreadful, “I’m sorry.”

     “Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Tell me what you did to make the yakuza go after you.”

     “I don’t want you getting involved,” he tries and fails to save the situation.

     “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but judging from what happened there, I _am_ involved already. So, well done.”

     Akira pulls his face into a grimace close to a kicked man, left in his burning house without any means to extinguish the fire. It’s so typical for you to turn the play around, to become the one hurting others after being hurt. The feeling of guilt settling inside you isn’t unfamiliar, somehow even sharper this time. Akira leans away and breaks from your hold, running a free hand through his unruly hair. The soft _tap tap tap_ of his foot against the pavement drives you insane.

     “That’s why I shouldn’t tell you more. I don’t want things to become worse,” he says and avoids looking at you.

     You cross your arms and lean against the cool wall, soaking in the feeling of some sort of grounding and security. “Well, it’s not like I’ll dive head first into some sort of rescue mission. I’m not a cop, and I certainly don’t have any means to get that much money.”

     Suddenly, Akira barks a horrible, humourless laugh. It’s like a jagged cut through the image you have of him as the boy you know at the moment. “And here goes my hope that you might be one of the Phantom Thieves, capable of helping me.”

     “Akira, stop joking about that,” you say, feeling your irritation grow back. “They’re not even real.” He shoots you a quick, strange glance, one you doubt you’d be able to decipher even if you had a dictionary solely dedicated to him. “So, are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

     You count until ten. Akira keeps staring at a crack on the ground in front of him, its junctions looking much like hands with claws. Just when you made peace with the fact that he won’t answer, Akira finally says, “Our Student Council President is my friend. In trying to do the right thing and help the school’s students, she got into trouble.” You swear if he’s going to say _I just wanted to help_ , you will scream and rip his hair off. “And I just wanted to help,” he closes his vague story, but it’s still enough for you to get the broad picture. You’ve heard about the rumours regarding shady businesses involving high school students around Shibuya, but that the Shujin Academy might be one of the targeted schools hasn’t occurred to you at all— a very naive thought, now that you think about it.

     “I hope you do realise now that kindness is a double-edged sword,” you manage, working hard on controlling your breath. It’s just the perfect story fit for someone like Akira; for someone who gives too much and ends up ripped apart. Something that could just as easily happen to Narukami, now that you realise how _alike_ they are, how they both put everyone else above them. Behaviour like this makes you so mad, you want to cry from frustration.

     Akira answers with a thoughtful hum. “Is it though?”

     “You’re not seriously trying to argue with me about that.”

     “I’m not. Maybe you’re right, but I don’t regret it.”

     You try to see the crack in his expression, just like the one on the ground. But Akira’s confidence is a solid wall unaffected by your prodding, and something about that positivity robs you of air.

     “Why am I not surprised,” you murmur, and to your surprise, Akira gives something close to a little earnest laugh.

     “Well, it isn’t the worst that happened to me because I was being nosy,” he admits, leaning back as well now. “But the yakuza, hm … I’m pretty sure that will look great on my resume.”

     “Please don’t even think about putting that in it.”

     Akira grins, but it’s short lived. He sits straighter, now looking very sternly at you, and you don’t like that look on his face. “Until it’s settled, maybe it would be best for you to avoid Shibuya. Also … maybe we … shouldn’t …” His voice gets quieter and quieter, and you know what he’s going to say next, but before Akira can finish his sentence, you quickly move on.

     “What exactly are you going to do?” you ask, the canned coffee long forgotten on the ground beside your feet and only brought back to your attention after you accidentally kick it when you lean forward. “Last time I checked, three million yen don’t just grow on trees.”

     “I have a plan,” Akira immediately replies, which makes warning bells go off in your head.

     “Please don’t tell me you’re going to rob a bank.”

     He gives you a crooked grin, part mirth, part malice, but it looks so fake and forced, it makes you cringe. “I would never.”

     “Oh, Akira. What the hell is going on.”

     Akira answers with a heartbreaking smile. Moments like these make you forget how young Akira actually is. There’s something in his eyes that speaks of experience; in the straight line his mouth tightens into that speaks of hardship. It’s unfair, and you wish whatever happened to him could have waited a couple of years until he’d been ready for it. The ignorance towards a youth’s suffering should be a crime.

     “Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright,” he offers you at last, though it sounds more like he’s talking to himself. Your arms burn with the desire to give him a nice, tight hug, but you’re not sure if you’ve unlocked that ability in your confidant level yet, so instead you grab his hand and pull him to his feet.

     “Okay. You know what, I’m just going to trust you on this,” you say. At least the easiness of lying is something you’ve inherited from your dad. “But if you need a hand, you can give me a call.”

     Akira stares at you like you’ve grown a second head.

     “Yeah, just don’t think you’ll get rid of me that easily,” you say, stretching until your back pops. As weird as it is, somehow you feel a lot better than you maybe should. Akira looks at you with a strange expression, a mix between awe and horror.

     “Not gonna lie, I was ready to bet five thousand yen that you’d block my number and never talk to me again,” he says, sheepishly pulling at this bangs.

     “Bet?” Your eyebrows go up. “Who lost?”

     “Mor—,” he starts, but then shakes his head. “No, it’s just a figure of speech.”

     “Huh.” If you knew better, you’d think he was going to say— But no, that’s impossible.

     A quick glance down at your watch tells you that the movie has started already, and to be honest, you’re not really motivated to watch it anyway with all the incidents today. Actually, you’d really rather go home and sleep a night on everything you’ve just heard. Just as you want to say that to Akira, he’s suddenly looming above you, and you flinch back, trying to remember if you heard the tiniest sound of him approaching.

     “By the way, you got something on your neck,” Akira says, and before you can react, he’s leaning right into your personal space and rubs just above the spot where your turtleneck shirt barely covers the hickey Tadashi oh so graciously left the previous night, that prick. Your eyes widen and you give a pathetic sounds just as he notices that it’s not just some smudge, and slowly his hand falls back to his side.

     “Oh,” he says weakly, the sound strangely hollow. “It’s not a—”

     “No,” you say, uselessly covering it with a hand and turning your head away from him. The previous night drops down on you like a crushing waterfall, the phantom feeling of Akira's hands on your body and his piercing eyes telling silent stories you can only dream about. “It’s uhm …”

     “It’s a—,” Akira starts, but doesn’t finish. Instead he takes a step away from you and kneads the back of his neck. “I think I have to go.”

     “Oh.” Now you feel really stupid. “Yeah, I think me too.”

     “Okay.” Akira exhales slowly. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you.”

     “Yeah,” you offer, but Akira has already turned around and left, his long legs carrying him with the speed of light out of the alley. You remain there a couple of seconds, just starring at the place he’s just been standing, trying not to think too hard about how your skin burns where his fingers just touched you. Your way home you label Walk of Shame.  
  
 

     The door to your apartment is already unlocked. Which could mean means two things: Either Iori is broke again and is scavenging your fridge, or someone is desperate enough trying to rob a student’s place. With your phone in your hand ready to call the cops, like that’s something you needed additionally to today’s revelations, you open the door and carefully enter your apartment. The light is on. No sound comes from your kitchen, so it can’t be Iori, but once you’re inside and stand on the threshold to your living room, you wish it were him instead of the person sitting on your couch.

     “You wanted to talk?” your father says instead of a greeting. “Then let’s talk.”


	6. [Rank 5]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been way too long since the last update. But since then, there's been so much positive feedback and kudos and I thank every single one of you sweet summer children for reading and supporting this story!
> 
> A little heads up: I'm not satisfied with this chapter, especially because of how I write and the pacing that I have (or don't) for this story. I'll definitely try and change some things for the next chapter(s), but right now the whole plot outline is a mess and I don't know what to do so please bear with me.
> 
> Now it's rambling time.  
> I know this is an outrage, but I actually never saw the end of P5 (everything after Shido's boss fight is foreign to me though I've heard about Yaldabaoth) and NOW I finally have a PS4 and can play it on my own, so we’ll see how this will change the story. I just started Shido's palace, so I'm end November/beginning of December. Really looking forward to the next big plottwist.  
> ALSO HMU IF U WANNA EXCHANGE IDs.
> 
> Some of you might have noticed I changed the title into [One Fool's Heart]. This is because once P5 Royal is out, I want to write another reader insert like this, and it'll be called [Two Fools A Minute]. See what I did there. Me smart.  
> The story behind is that I want to write a NG+ based on the changes in Royal with Akira being aware of that (original, I know) and some major changes to our Reader character. What I'm looking forward the most though is the Akira/Reader/Akechi I will serve you if Akechi doesn't get the redemption story he deserves in Royal. Plus I want to provide you with a genderless Reader so everyone can enjoy!
> 
> Also, I'm a slut for Naruto again. Especially Kakashi. Which I always found really boring. Guess what. Young, buff ANBU Kakashi isn't boring at all.
> 
> 2nd also: There are two other projects I'm working on more or less. The sequel to [Two Evils] and a Akira/Yusuke one-shot I hope will come sooner than later.
> 
> Rambling end. Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

 

     The first thing you remember about your father is that he loved to give piggy-back rides. Though in the pictures surfacing from a deep, black sea, it’s never quite clear if it’s you or your brother sitting on your dad’s shoulders, wagging tiny sticks at everything in your reach. Only the remembrance of summer with its humid air, the sweet smell of flowers and strawberries waiting on the veranda of your grandparent’s house in the countryside is palpable enough as evidence of some better time.

     Now, those days feel like a different life. This man sitting in front of you doesn’t look anything like someone who would grab children and swirl them around while making plane noises to charm giggles and laughs out of them. No, in front of you is someone powerful enough to stripe a person from everything important to them with only a couple of words in the prospect of good payment and reputation.

     You’re sitting at your tiny table, poking around the take-out your father has brought, now spread out in front of you. Background noises from the TV fill the silence. On the screen, a red haired girl is smiling into the camera, her straight back just as much of a statement as her next words. “… _I_ _don’t quite like The Phantom Thieves. In the end, people have to solve their problems on their own, I think_.”

     The presenter hums approvingly. “ _And that was our royal princess, Rin Amamiya, on the newest development of the Phantom Thieves_ ,” he says. _“We will keep you updated on her upcoming entrance to the Shujin Academy as a first year.”_

     The cutlery lands with a sharp sound on the table. When you look up, Dad is scowling at the TV. “What nonsense,” he says. “A group threatening our law system with their childish view of justice. It seems our media has too much latitude to cover a topic like that.”

     You shrug, shoving vegetables from one side on your plate to the other. Before that, thinking about the Phantom Thieves has always left a sour taste in your mouth. Now, the spite towards them is replaced by a feeling of fellowship if it means opposing your father, so you say, “It seems they do better than some people I know.”

     Heavy silence crawls like a beast, ready to pounce, and when you look up, Dad watches you with a strange expression. It’s close to how your mother would look if a cockroach would scurry around her kitchen floor.

     “Why are you not eating?” he asks instead of pressing your previous statement. There’s so much of you in this little act, you feel sick.

     “I’m not hungry.”

     “Should I have brought nigiri with eel instead?” he continues, a small smile stealing into his stern expression. “You’ve always liked that.”

     The sickness twists right into nausea as you drag your chair back, trying to get as much space between your bodies as possible.

     “No, it’s Kinoe,” you say, curling your hands into fists at his confused stare. “Kinoe likes eel.”

     “Ah, that’s right,” Dad says, not looking embarrassed in the slightest. “It’s always nice to remember the first time your brother had it.”

     “Oh yeah? Just like how nice it is to remember how you left him rotting in that hospital?”

     The little smile dies on his lips. Dad considers you with a scrutinising look, his eyes a steely mirror of your own.

     “I don’t understand what gives you that impression,” he says, his voice several notes deeper. “Kinoe is in that place because he needs help. And he will get it from skilled people capable of fixing him.”

     A shudder rips through your body. “He doesn’t need to be _fixed_ ! What he needs is for you people to leave him alone and get him out of that … that _prison_!”

     “I think you do not understand,” Dad says, collected and dissociated like he’s talking about a distant relative. Maybe that’s really how he sees his son. “You worry too much, and that worry prevents you from seeing the big picture. It makes you weak, and more importantly, it makes you hold on to something that will drag you down.” Dad gets up. He looms over you, and you hate how it makes you feel like a little child that is scolded for supposedly wrongdoings. “Let it go. If you don’t let go of what will drag you down, you won’t come far in this world.”

     “I’m not—” You gasp for air, fighting the swelling tears piercing your eyes. “I won’t be like _you_.”

     “And you will see how much you will regret that later.”

     “Maybe you have stopped believing in him,” you say, rising in your seat, straightening your back to appear as confident as the girl from the news show. “But I won’t.”

     Dad watches you, and for a moment, you see the anger blazing in his eyes before it quickly settles. It doesn’t calm your heartbeat. You’ve learnt that anything he has planned for you that isn’t his loud, unleashed furry, will be worse.

     “So you won’t listen to reason. I give you a roof and a shelter. I give you a chance for education and prosperity. I ask of you one simple thing, and in return you question my ways and act like a child. If you stand against everything I hold high of value, then there is no need for me to give you what you so clearly despite. Your rent, your college tuition.” He raises an eyebrow in challenge at your shocked face.

     All air leaves your lungs. “You can’t— you can’t do that,” you stammer. “You can’t have _both_ children fail the family.”

     He must notice how you’re desperately clinging to whatever threads cross your mind. A pleased smile spreads on his lips as he goes to your couch where he’s left his suit jacket. “I can do as I please. I’m certain a lot of children would do anything to have the same opportunity you have, and your mother agrees.”

     This is the last strike your heart can take. Your voice breaks when you nearly sob, “Just what happened to you?”

     Dad looks from you to the TV screen where they’re broadcasting another report about a psychotic breakdown. He straightens his unwrinkled jacket and moves to the door.

     “This is your last chance,” he says, slipping into his shoes. “I don’t want to hear anything from you about your brother.”

     You stay silent, speechless in front of the giant abyss gaping in front of you, threatening to swallow you whole. Dad considers you a last time, his hand already on the doorhandle. “And call your mother from time to time. She’s upset there’s little she can tell her friends about your studies.” He doesn’t wait for a response, and only after the door closes behind him, you manage to come up with some sort of reaction. You remove your slipper and throw it at the door. “I HATE YOU!”

     No one answers. You take the other slipper and throw it as well, the second bang even louder. “YOU’RE A MONSTER!”

     Someone laughs behind you. A comedy is running, some people with painted faces dressed in animal costumes dance on the screen. Their joy only fuels your seething anger, the laid table with the take-away the only obstacle hindering you from punching the screen. So you kick the table instead and send the remaining food containers flying through the living room. It doesn’t stop there. Whatever gets in your hands ends up smashed against the walls or stomped. Before you can consider throwing your rice cooker against the TV, someone pounds on your door. A bolting fear strikes you. It’s Dad, ready to commit you to a hospital as well. Wiping your tears away, you arm yourself with a brush, ready to fight until the bitter end. Let’s see how he’ll like that to his face.

     But behind the door is just Iori, standing there with a corncob in his hand. Over his shoulder, you see the door to his apartment standing wide open.

     “Dude, are you okay?” he asks, his brows furrowed in worry. “It sounds like. Someone’s getting killed in there. Like. It’s really bad.”

     “Well, I certainly wish someone was dead,” you mumble, staring at him and hoping he’ll get the meaning and leaves you alone. Iori nods like he’s been part of the catastrophic dinner with your dad and gets why you’re so angry.

     “Sorry to hear that.” He tries to get a look over your shoulder. You get on your tiptoes.

     “Here, I hope that makes you happy.” His corncob is still warm as he pushes it in your hands. You look back up at him. “Why?”

     “Cuz when you’re upset, you’re hungry. And when you’re hungry, you get upset.” He taps a finger against his temple, grinning. “Simple math.”

     Despite all things, you take a bite. He’s even taken the effort to put butter on it, and something little as that manages to ease the hold of the clutches of despair clawing at your back.

     “Iori, what would I do without you.”

     His brilliant smile is blinding. “Yeah, man. Sometimes I wonder the same.”

 

 

     The next time Akira texts you, a couple of weeks have passed since his high tail. Since then, he’s cancelled most of your study sessions, each reason more vague than the previous until you’re convinced you won’t see him ever again. But then, finally, a message from him waits in your mail box, looking quite innocent and with proper grammar asking you to come around and help him for his upcoming finals. The lack of emojis and misspellings is the last evidence you needed to know your friendship is officially unrepairable. Speaking of unrepairable, throwing your furniture around wasn’t one of your brightest ideas and now you’re faced with additional expenses you don’t need with college tuition coming up, especially since you don’t know if your dad will keep his word or will let you have a first bitter taste of what will happen if you continue defying him. All in all, it certainly isn’t the best time to be you, and oh how much you wish you could shed your skin and become someone else.

     The cicadas are unbearably loud in this part of Yongen-Jaya. Vendors hide in the shadows of their shops, their eyes following you with caution, but lacking their usual predatory glint. Inside Leblanc, you’re the only customer. You find Akira in a booth hunched over the table. Something squirms in his arms, a desperate meow drifts in a single note through the cafe. A tiny white paw pushes against Akira’s cheek. Morgana is cradled in his arms, but happiness looks different. His tiny feet struggle as he tries to break free out of Akira’s vice grip.

     “Do I need to call the animal protection service?” you ask, sitting down and looking for Sojiro. Except for Akira, the cafe is empty.

     Morgana gives you affirmative cries. Akira looks up, sleepiness colouring his eyes darker, and lies his cheek on Morgana’s belly. “I give him food and a place to sleep. That’s the least he can do for me.”

     Morgana thinks otherwise as he chews on Akira’s temple stem. When he manages to wiggle free, Morgana jumps out of Akira’s arms, over the table and settles on your lap like he owns it, glaring at his owner across the table. To compensate for the trauma he’s experienced, you scratch Morgana behind his ears. When he starts purring, Akira gives him the look of utter betrayal.

     “So we’re going to make you ready for finals, huh,” you say, trying to make small talk. “I can’t believe six months are already over.”

     Akira doesn’t seem to want any of it. “Uh-huh,” he says, scrolling through his phone. You wait for the elaboration on that sound, but Akira remains quiet. With nothing left to say, you spread the materials on the table. Akira watches you like a predator on hunt.

     “You wanna go over some stuff from last time?” you offer, trying to look past the gleam on his glasses.

     Akira shakes his head. “Actually, we should wait a little more.”

     “Wait?” You stop reaching out to the papers in front of you. “Wait for what?”

     He hesitates the tiniest second, but it’s enough time. Behind you, the door opens and welcomes a gust of warm wind inside the room.

     “Hey Akira! We got the snacks!” an all to familiar voice announces, followed by multiple feet stomping into the cafe.

     “Ryuji, stop pushing!” Ann shoves him to the side like a bag of potatoes. Akira avoids your eyes as you turn around to greet his friends. Besides Ann and Ryuji, two other unfamiliar faces watch you with curious eyes.

     “Oh, you made her come!” Ann exclaims, clapping her hands in excitement.

     You look from them to Akira, then back to them. And back to Akira. A mischievous glint lights up his eyes, the breath hitching in his throat as he opens his mouth, then quickly presses his lips together when he notices you starring daggers at him. Seeing your murderous gaze, he seems to think twice before jumping on that innuendo and instead clears his throat.

     “Yeah,” he says, looking away from you. “Just as promised.”

     “Oh, really?” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “You guys wanted me to help you study?”

     “Hell yeah!” Ryuji slides right into the seat next to you, glaring at Morgana sprawled over your lap as if just by the will of his stare he’s able to switch their positions. “Akira didn’t want at first, but come on! Except for our school’s Prez, there’s no one who can teach us that stuff better than someone who’s been through it all, right?”

     You nod, the smile frozen on your face. Now that’s some news you could have gladly been spared today. No wonder Akira sounded so formal when he asked if you could come over. He must have really wanted to avoid you longer, were it not for his friends. And judging from what you now about him so far, he isn’t one to deny requests.

     “Yeah, that’s no problem at all,” you say, quickly filling the silence before your lack of response became suspicious. It’s strange Akira didn’t tell you about the others coming though. Maybe he’d feared you’d decline. Or charge extra. Which you totally will, now that you think about it.

     “Hello,” offers the other girl now sliding next to Akira. Her short brown hair curls around her jaw and falls over her forehead, just inches away from concerningly sharp, brown eyes. “Thank you so much for accepting us into your tutor schedule. I am Makoto Nijima.”

     “It’s no problem at all,” you say, scooting over to the wall so Ann can fit next to Ruyji. The other boy in this round of strange teenagers takes the free place beside Makoto. He exchanges very suspicious looks with Akira, then proceeds to stare at you for a solid minute. Ignoring it succeeds only so long, before you give him a small, awkward smile. “Hi there?”

     Makoto nudges him with her elbow.

     “Ah, yes. My apologies, I am Yusuke Kitagawa. And you must be the one Akira has mentioned so often,” he says, nodding like he’s met with a revelation. Shuffling comes from somewhere next to you, a leg brushes against yours. Yusuke jumps slightly and glares at Ryuji, swallowing a gasp of pain. These kids should really learn a thing or two about subtlety.

     “Anyyyway, how about we start?” Ann intervenes with her brilliant smile. “Looks like you’ve brought lots of material for us to go through!”

     And that’s how one of the most awkward 90 minutes of your life start. Everyone’s brought a little something from their classes which is fine until you’re looking at tasks from English and suffer through some serious PTSD, thinking back to your English finals and entrance exams. Luckily Ann comes to your rescue, and that’s how you get to know a little bit about everyone that day; that Ann’s half Finnish with a love for sweets that surpasses every child’s; that Yusuke likes to fill every blank space in his notebook with studies of hand drawings, glancing at Akira’s for reference; that Makoto is a junkie for brightly coloured sticky notes with a brain that is just beautiful to hear thinking; that Ryuji absentmindedly kneads his right knee whenever he’s struggling to come up with the solution to a task. The only slate remaining the same, filled with little to no facts, is Akira’s. He's still refusing to acknowledge you, his attention shifting smoothly between his friends and only turning to you if it's necessary. He knows how to keep conversations polite without ending on an awkward note, and seems somewhat relieved once you stop trying to talk to him. If that’s how he wants to play it, then so be it, but he’s underestimating you big time if he thinks you won’t confront him about that once you’re alone.

     “Maaan, I can’t do this,” Ryuji groans. He stretches and leans back, his pen long forgotten between textbooks, and takes up too much space between the three of you in a booth that’s meant for two people. Ann thinks the same and drills her elbow in his side.

     “Can’t you focus for at least five minutes? You’re disturbing everyone else,” she says, twirling long strands of golden hair around her finger.

     Ryuji gives her a nasty glare, rubbing his side. “I can’t work like that, man. I need some kind of motivation or else nothing’s gonna happen.”

     “Not failing your test should be motivation enough for you, shouldn’t it?” Makoto offers, not looking up from the sentence she’s writing down.

     Ryuji grumbles to himself, then perks up. “Oh, I got it! Fireworks! We should go and see the fireworks!”

     Several heads look up, their expressions varying from interested to doubting. Ryuji quickly continues now that he has everyone’s attention. “It’s on the 18th, after finals, and it’ll totally make up for all the anxiety and stress I’m going through right now. Plus, like … there’s another. Reason. Right. Akira?” he says, jerking his chin towards Makoto between every last word. It’s obvious there’s something he can’t say out loud, and Akira immediately picks up on it. Yusuke not so much.

     “Another reason?” he asks, abandoning his math equation. “Which is?”

     Ann’s forced smile is threatening to split her face in half. “Oh, you know, Yusuke! Celebrating that Makoto became one of our _friends_.”

     Whatever this is, its cringe is too painful to watch. For a brief moment, you consider calling them out; telling them that you know ‘friends’ stands for something completely different and you’re onto them.

     Yusuke, the sweet summer child, asks, looking at you, “I see, of course! Then please, would you come with us? Now that you’re also our friend, it would only be fair to invite you as well!”

     Several heads snap in his direction, the reactions going from a hissed “Yusuke” to a hushed “Take the hint, man”. Only Akira is looking at you, probably evaluating how much you’re interpreting from everyone’s reaction.

     Needless to say, it’s a lot. You can clearly see you’re unwanted, and even Morgana has sympathy with you as he rubs his chin on your bare thigh. Or maybe he just wants you to resume patting him.

     “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Akira finally offers, staring back down on his task like it needs his complete concentration. “She has enough to do for college. It would be bad if we stole more of her time, right?”

     “That’s not for you to decide,” you don’t snap at him because you like to think you have that much dignity. “Yeah,” you agree instead. “Deadlines coming up and stuff.”

     “Oh, that’s too bad,” Ann says, slightly wincing herself at the relief in her voice. “But maybe next time!”

     You’re pretty sure there won’t be a next time, but you nod nonetheless so they don’t feel bad about it.

 

     After the session, you join Ann and the rest when they leave Leblanc, seeing as there is no way to get a hold of Akira and talk to him in private with how he avoids you like the plague. Outside, the streets are much cooler. More people linger around the shops, drawn out of their homes and now more active in the evening hours. Your little group moves towards the underground station, and you’d really like to say how strange it is to hang out with those youngsters, but something about them all appears age-less, like they don’t follow basic laws of nature, defying the very notion that age is something that might differentiate people. That is until Ryuji sees the poster of the game _Punch Ouch_ coming out soon and turns into a four year old, getting so excited he starts pulling at everyone’s clothes.

     “Why is he such an idiot,” Ann says beside you, wearing an exhausted expression. You sort of want to admit that it gives him a certain kind of charm, but Ann quickly continues, “By the way, thanks again for today! Now I finally get why Akira’s been on top of our class for so long.”

     “I think he’s a smart guy by default,” you say, but the compliment flatters you nonetheless, especially coming from Ann.

     “Oh, totally,” she agrees, quickly checking herself out in the reflection of a window. “Sometimes it feels like he’s soo much older than us.”

     “Akira certainly is very mature for his age,” Makoto joins in. One thing you’ve noticed is her unnervingly straight back and drawn back shoulders, a posture your mother surely would love to see on you as well. Thinking of her, you hunch even more. “I’m sure that whatever he’s planned for his future, it will work out in his favour.”

     “Not with that sassy attitude of his,” you mutter, but no one picks it up. Seriously, if you had known how much of a sass-master Akira turned out to be, you’d have thought twice about agreeing tutoring him. Not that it matters anymore. When you said your goodbyes earlier, he didn’t say anything when you missed out on telling him what to do for next sessions or that you’ll see each other next time. Seems like it’s time for you to look for a new job.

     “It’ll be the first time me going confident into exams,” Ann chirps, glancing briefly at Ryuji and Yusuke arguing about something. “Remind me to invite you to crêpe next time we meet!”

     “I think we should all think about little thank you gift,” Makoto agrees. “We wouldn’t want you to think Akira is surrounded by inconsiderate jerks.”

     You don’t quite follow how it matters what you think of them, but it’s certainly refreshing meeting someone so polite.

     “The only jerk we got around is Morgana,” Ryuji unhelpfully joins, earning an exasperated sigh from Ann that sounds like this isn’t the first time they're holding this kind of conversation. Instead of starting another argument though, she turns back to you and says, “But I was kind of surprised how at ease Morgana was around you. You must be hanging out a lot with them, right?”

     Multiple eyes wait for your answer, and somehow you feel no matter what you say, there isn’t a right one.

     “Sort of,” you drag out, pretending the colourful adverts hanging on the buildings need your full attention. “But like Akira said, I’ve been busy lately, so …”

     “The cat’s just friendly cause you’re a girl,” Ryuji clarifies, rolling his eyes. Ann kicks him. “But man, they’re both so lucky living above that cafe and all,” he continues. “I’d pay anything to have Boss make me some of his sick curry every day.”

     Yusuke mutters something that sounds like “as if you could appreciate the fine craftsmanship of that”. You just stop listening to whatever Ryuji snaps back.

     “By the way, does any of you know why he lives there?” you ask into the round. “Boss is what? A relative? Or just someone who took him in?”

     The kids grow quiet all of a sudden. They exchange those _looks_ ; looks that say more than words, looks only shared by people who are intimate with each other.

     Ryuji breaks the silence first. “Truth is, he got involved into some real stupid—”

     Makoto cuts him off with a sharp glare. “Ryuji.”

     “It would be best you ask him yourself,” Yusuke provides with a stern expression. “We are in no position to talk about his situation.”

 _Situation_ he calls it. You don’t press further, respecting these kid’s loyalty. If you needed any further proof that Akira is surrounded by friends who really cherish him, this is certainly the selling argument. What still bothers you though is that chances are high Akira won’t tell you even if you ask him. Akira is an enigma you can’t solve because every time you think you have the solution for a part, it turns out it doesn’t fit at all and instead opens a dozen new riddles. It’s frustrating, and disheartening, but you stand firm to what you told Akira all those weeks ago. If he thinks he can get rid of you that easily, you’re up for the challenge to prove him wrong.

 

 

     “I need to get laid and you’re going to help me.”

     You look up from your essay, only a couple hundred words away from finishing it and going into a long overdue relaxing weekend. Whatever Kenji Tomochika sees in your face, it isn’t the reaction he’s expected because he immediately turns on his begging strategy and drapes himself over your table, covering your books with his body. Kenji is a nice guy. A little too eager to please, and what he lacks in theoretical understanding, he makes up with a lot of on point intuition that borders on scary. As a law senior, he’s already done with most of the obligatory part and now focuses on looking for a place to finish all his internships. With his natural flirty tendency, it’s a surprise he’s asking anybody for help. You’ve heard from a third party that he used to date a teacher back in high school, but you take them for what they are. Rumours.

     “Come oooon, I promise I’m gonna prepare all your presentation slides for the rest of this term,” he offers, blinking up at you.

     You ignore his pleading eyes. “No offence, but your slides tend to be the most useless I’ve ever seen.”

     “More like full offence,” Kenji mutters, leaning back. “It’s not like you have any other plans for today evening. Right?”

     “Maybe I do.”

     “Narukami’s outta town. You don’t hang out with anyone else. I’m willing to spend some time with you out of the goodness of my heart. There’s literally no reason to decline.”

     You answer with the most blank expression you can muster, hoping Kenji fills it himself with a clear _One reason is simply I don’t want to hang out with you_. Kenji remains clueless.

     “Don’t tell me there’s no one else who wants to be your wingman,” you say.

     Kenji looks sheepishly away. “You’re the only one I trust.”

     What a smooth gremlin. Plus you’ve always been weak to dimples and oh boy, Kenji uses his like a sharp weapon cutting down your defences. It’d be great if someone could finally put a leash on him and stop him from flirting with everything that fancies two legs.

     “When and where?”

     Kenji’s eyes light up like a child’s. “I could kiss you.” You don’t miss his hand sneaking up to your thigh. “Actually, if you wanna—”

     “I’m going to chop off something very important to you if you don’t take your hands off,” you say, not looking away from your essay. Kenji gives a nervous little chuckle, but pulls his hand away with lightning-speed.

 

     So that is how you end up standing in front of Crossroads, a popular bar tugged away under a large office building in Shinjuku. Kenji is fashionably late, as always, but when he finally arrives ten minutes past your meeting time, you can’t stop the groan once he stands in front of you.

     “What are you wearing?”

     Kenji looks at his attire, tuxedo and tie looking sharp like they just came out of the cleaners. “Why, what’s wrong?”

     “We’re going to a bar, not to the Prime Minister’s wedding.”

     “You think the Prime Minister would invite me?!”

     You groan again, pushing him towards the door. “Just get inside.”

     The interior hasn’t changed much since your last visit a couple of months ago. Pinkish-red light throws black shadows into the corners of the room. Lots of patrons linger around, even though it’s barely 8. You can hear Lala’s smooth, deep voice rumbling through the air, the sweet smell of booze lingering everywhere. Undeniably, this establishment has class and all of a sudden you feel out of place and wished you were wearing something as fancy as Kenji, who seems to read your mind and gives you a smug jerk of his chin, celebrating his own attire.

     “Welcome to Crossroads,” someone greets you from behind the bar, and your legs freeze, succeeding in Kenji walking right into you. You can’t believe it. Behind the bar stands a lanky boy wearing an apron, thick black curls sticking in every direction. Motherfucker.

     “What are you doing here?” you ask Akira who blinks innocently at you like he’s never been anywhere else than in this bar. He’s scrubbing a glass, and nods at you like a cowboy who doesn’t want to hurt another cowboy.

     “Welcome,” he repeats. “What can I bring you?”

     So that’s the game he wants to play. Fine, you’re pretty good at ignoring people as well, so you pull Kenji towards the farthest seat away from the bar, ignoring his complains about how you’re putting wrinkles in his suit jacket. Unfortunately, he thwarts your brilliant plan by growing roots and remains right there in front of the bar stools.

     “Wait, let’s just sit down here and have the booze keep coming,” he says, and sits down right in front of Akira. You don’t miss how Kenji sneaks glances to the girl in a pink evening dress sitting two stools to his left. Akira considers you for two seconds, then moves to the far right, away from you. Kenji looks after him with apparent interest like a shark that’s scented blood from miles away.

     “You know him?” he asks the unavoidable, and _now_ you’re feeling really petty, so you answer loud enough for Akira to hear, “Barely.”

     Kenji doesn’t look like he believes you. The girl in the pink dress sitting beside him doesn’t look like she believes you. Behind you, Akira coughs what suspiciously sounds like “Liar.” You refuse to acknowledge him, and Kenji thankfully doesn’t comment on it as well. Finally, Lala comes around and greets you, flipping ash in an ashtray next to the sink and looking astonishing as always in her beautiful kimono.

     “Why, if this isn’t Kenji. Nice of you to show your face again after all this time,” she greets him, then immediately turns to you. “And this your girlfriend?”

     “I wish,” Kenji says at the same time you throw back, “Heck no.”

     Lala doesn’t even blink. “Yes, you do seem too good for him.”

     When Kenji complains, she softly chucks the bottom of his chin with a loose fist and smiles, promising to serve you two drinks right away. She’s just everything you aspire to be.

     “Look at her, treating me like I’m a little kid,” Kenji mumbles, picking on his paper towel. His eyes quickly shift to the girl, before he picks himself up again and straightens his back. No time can mentally prepare you for what he’s planned to pick her up. “But back to what I was telling you! I’m currently working with pharmaceutical companies. They were looking for a prosecutor who’s got experience in that industry, and well,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “There’s no one better than me.”

     Oh God, how often did you tell him that gloating about himself isn’t the best ice breaker. You say, “Great,” but it comes off too dry, so you clear your throat and try again with as much awe as you can stuff in your voice, “ _Grrreeaaat_.” Kenji nods eagerly, and then starts rambling about some bad cases and some worse co-workers, and it becomes really hard to focus on what he says and react accordingly. At least the drinks Lala keeps serving are a nice consolation for the evening that you lose. You’re basically just slurping away your drink during Kenji’s frantic speech, when suddenly something hits the back of your head. When you turn around, a little nut clatters to the ground. Kenji looks over your shoulder, staring down at the little thing.

     “Woah, where did that come from?”

     You have a pretty good idea, and when you raise your eyes, there’s only one person in your sight. Akira whistles like it’s no one’s business, but he left the bowl with nuts and raisins close to him intentionally so you can see them. You take a deep breath. Maybe his hand slipped or something.

     “Okay, and so how did the case end?” you resume the conversation, squaring your shoulders so Akira can see they’re a wall separating you two. If Akira understands your idea, he answers by using nuts as bullets to tear it down. Another nut lands against the back of your head. Then another, then another. The fifth gets stuck in your hair. Carefully, Kenji points at it with his finger. “You got, uhm. You know, there’s—”

     Akira snorts and that’s when you snap. You jump to your feet, glaring at him. “What the heck is your problem?!”

     Akira whirls around and slams both hands on the counter. “What the heck is _your_ problem?”

     “You can’t do that, I asked first!”

     “Well, I don’t want to answer!”

     “Kids, if you don’t settle down in three seconds, I will throw you out of my bar,” Lala chirps from the side, her glare sending chills down your spine. You stare at Akira. “I’ll meet you after your shift.”

     Akira gives a sharp nod. “Behind the vending machines at 11. And no kicking!” he yells after you like you’re elementary school kids after you slam some coins on the bar and stomp outside, ignoring Kenji calling your name. The cool evening air will surely calm you. The dozens visual stimulations will surely distract you before you come up with the best way to strangle Akira. If he thinks you’ll go easy on him for ignoring and then annoying you, he’s got something bad coming.

 

     Akira is waiting for you exactly where you planned, leaning against the wall with both hands stuffed in his pockets. Even from a distance, you can clearly see the tension in his shoulders, and you think, _Good, he better be nervous about this_. You raise your chin when you’re finally standing in front of him. Akira looks down at (on?) you, and immediately you feel your temper boil again.

     “Are you going to apologise or what?” you demand, putting both hands on your hips to underline how upset you are like a mom chiding her child. Immediately, your arms drop, but you stand firm. Akira cocks an eyebrow at you. “For what?”

     The coldness in his voice cuts you like a sharp shard of glass. It’s a new side of Akira you haven’t seen before, one you’re not willed to face without fighting back.

     “Oh, you know. For being a jerk?”

     Akira looks at you like you’re speaking a different language, like the very _notion_ of him being connected to that word just doesn’t exist in his understanding of the world. He leans his head back against the wall, exposing the elegant curve of his neck. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

     “Why are you such an ass?” you hiss, feeling your patience dissipate with every second. “I didn’t do anything to you, did I? Or is this your stupid idea of keeping me away because of Kaneshiro?”

     Akira’s eye twitches. He pushes himself off the wall, now looming over you. “This has nothing to do with Kaneshiro,” he hisses, voice gravely low. “You still shouldn’t say his name out loud where his thugs might hear you.”

     Okay, point taken. “So, why then? Did you just spontaneously decide you’re not interested in—” _me_ you almost say, but quickly finish with “— being friends anymore?” If he says Yes, it will probably be the biggest friendship you’ll regret. Already you have poured too soon too much from yourself into it, and it will be difficult to pick up the pieces Akira might decide to throw away once he walks away from you.

     A shadow jumps over Akira’s face. For a second, he seems uncertain, but it quickly makes way to a frown. “I just thought you might want to spend more time with your boyfriend instead of wasting time on tutor hours.”

     You squint up at him, unsure if you’ve heard right. “Excuse me, what?”

     “You heard me quite clear,” Akira says, his tone back to freezing point save for a little tremor that betrays him.

     Since you can’t decide on either smacking or kicking him, you settle for a weak punch to his side, affectively damaging nothing at all. “You are. Really, really, _really_ stupid … for someone who’s on top of his class.”

     Akira blinks. ”Did you just call me dumb.”

     “What boyfriend?” you almost shriek. “Who says I have a boyfriend?”

     “I—” Akira starts, then points at the crook of his neck. There’s nothing on his skin, so his argument falls flat, until he points at you and miraculously, you connect the dots. Both hands raise to your face as you bless Akira with one of your rare face palms.

     “Akira,” you say into the palm of your hands. “Why the fuck would you read something like that into a hickey.”

     Akira gives a half-gasp, and when you peak through your fingers, you see his dumbfounded expression. “It’s a _hickey_? Who else would give you one?”

     You don’t even understand why you have this kind of conversation. Why Akira _cares_ about something so personal. Feeling you’re already too deep down the rabbit hole, you decide it can’t get any worse.

     “Akira, there’s this thing called one-night stand,” you yell-whisper, and feel a tiny, smug satisfaction when all colour drains from his face. He opens his mouths, then closes it. The fight almost leaves his body, but doubles back. Akira hisses, “How was I supposed to know?”

     “Not at all!” you hiss back, just faintly acknowledging that you’re standing close enough to each other for your toes to touch. “Because there’s another thing you should learn a thing or two about and that’s _privacy_.”

     Akira looks ready to fight you for his honour and principles, and it takes a second or two before you realise he’s freaking _sulking_. You’re ready to hand him his ass, promising some direly needed lessons in basic human interaction which doesn’t include assuming about other people’s relationship status and acting like an asshole because of it, but suddenly you remember Makoto calling Akira mature for his age and God, how you wish you could save this moment via video and show her that no, Akira is a fucking brat who acts like a little kid who is denied playing with his favourite toy—and that makes you laugh and dissolve the tension inside you.

     Akira interprets it wrong, and you can see tiny red blotches on his face. It looks charming on his pale skin. “Oh, that’s rich. Yeah, keep laughing at me.”

     “I’m not—” you start, but don’t know how to finish. Eventually, you only come up with, “Akira, what are we doing here?”

     Akira gives you a scrutinising look. “We’re fighting, and no one’s winning. Which sucks because I like winning.”

     “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think anyone is happy with this.”

     Akira presses his mouth into a thin line, then relaxes, and just like that, the air leaves his lungs and he slumps back, defeated. It’s all you need to know everything is going to be okay.

     “Come on, I’m buying you a sandwich,” you say, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

     Akira follows reluctantly. “Why a sandwich.”

     “So you can be the idiot sandwich that you are.”

     Akira grunts, a barely passable laugh. It uncoils a tight knot in your stomach, allowing you to breathe easier.

     The good thing about any of the big districts in Tokyo is that most shops and stalls are still open past midnight. The streetfood is famous for its high price but amazing taste. You decide on okonomiyaki, and take a free bench in Toyama Park. Since it’s mostly couples strolling under the dim lanterns and dark trees, holding hands and leaning into each other, you leave an arm’s length between you and Akira out of politeness, and dig in.

     “It feels like we haven’t talked in ages,” Akira admits, chewing on his plastic spoon. You could tell him that yeah, it’s been almost a whole month, but you don’t want him to think you’re keeping tabs on how often you see each other.

     “Yeah, you look like you’ve grown again, bean sprout,” you say, dodging Akira’s foot trying to nudge yours.

     “Plus I’m getting a serious sense of déjà vu,” he continues. “Our last fight ended with me apologising as well, didn’t it?”

     “You want me to make a tally for that?” you offer smiling, but your words lack any bite.

     Akira manages a little smile. “I’m sorry. That makes it the third or fourth, counting each time I was a jerk to you.”

     “Forget about it. As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

     “Promise.”

     And you really believe him because it doesn’t seem far fetched that Akira is someone who treats promises like a holy oath. With the air cleared between you, but now tense, you really want to lay it to rest, and your brain provides a strange topic out of the dumpster that your memory sometimes is: “By the way, I heard The Phantom Thieves dealt with Kaneshiro. Pretty convenient, huh?”

     Akira’s head snaps up. “What?”

     You turn around. “What?”

     Akira looks like a dear caught in front of a car’s headlights. “I mean, you heard about that?”

     “It was basically everything everyone talked about, right? Hard not to hear about it."

     “Yeah.” Akira gives a strained laugh. “Convenient.”

     “You know, I gave them a lot of shit when they turned up, but lately, I’ve been wondering if they’re actually really doing something good for our society,” you admit, avoiding Akira’s eyes. He’s nice enough not to gloat about it, and asks quietly, “How come?”

     “Well, they’re just … they’re doing something?” you offer weakly. “It might be wrong _how_ they do it. But so far, all their targets deserved it? They take down corrupt people, so … they must be good, right?” You hate the insecurity in your voice just as much as all those questions. Since your fight with your dad, you’ve been checking out the Phansite a lot more, trying to keep up with the news and comments. Especially the request section caught your interest, and more than once you caught yourself wondering if you should try it out yourself, asking them to change your Dad’s heart. But they wouldn’t notice your post, not with all the flooding messages coming in. At least that’s the convenient excuse you tell yourself.

     Occupied with all these questions, you only notice Akira talking to you when he lightly puts the tips of his fingers on your bare thigh.

     “They try to help,” he says, his fingers remaining on your skin even though you’re already paying attention to him. “But they would also not be doing what they do were it not for people like Madarame and Kaneshiro.”

 _And Dad_ , you think grimly, looking down where Akira’s fingers slightly dip into your skin. He waits another second before finally pulling back, his back straight—a clear indicator that he’s preparing himself for something you won’t like.

     “Can I … uhm … ask how your brother is doing?”

     Your body tenses, but your brain luckily doesn’t answer with a counterattack immediately. Apparently, your heart has accepted Akira trying to creep inside.

     “He’s fine … I guess,” you mumble. Really talking about it is too early, especially since you’re still sorting out how to replace the broken furniture after the fallout with your dad. But it doesn’t leave you choking on raw emotions which is a good start. “After giving you shit for your behaviour last time, I guess I owe you an explanation, don’t I.”

     Akira slowly shakes his head, but it lacks determination.There’s never a good way to start talking about it, so you just set out to be done with it as fast as possible.

     “He’s in a psychiatric clinic. My parents think he’s a danger to himself and those around him, so they try to lock him away, but the only thing they care about is their reputation. You see, you can’t be anything but perfect, and to them depression is a sickness you can just … just carve out of you or something if you try hard enough. So they leave him there. They let the doctors do their work, but they don’t really _do_ anything.” Your voice is barely audible now, just a remnant of breath left stuck somewhere inside you. “They don’t care about his wellbeing as well.”

     Just thinking about it flares the sharp agony of grief up in your chest—you feel as you imagined a fish caught on a hook might feel, twisting and turning to get away from the spike of pain driven into its flesh.

     Beside you, Akira ruffles his hair and mutters, “It all comes back to adults, huh.”

     Certainly not the reaction you expected. When you look over to Akira with confusion clearly in your eyes, he huffs a little sigh, and leans back against the bench, looking up into the treetops. A hand comes up to tug at his bangs, and you can’t help but wonder how his hair would feel between your fingers.

     “Originally, I’m from a little town called Yamato south from Tokyo,” he says. Your heart stumbles, not believing what’s about to happen. But before you can tell Akira he doesn’t need to feel pressured talking about himself, he drops the bomb. “And now I live here on probation.”

     Immediately, your back rises straighter. “Probation?” You exhale slowly, voice shaky as you try to joke. “Is this the moment you tell me you murdered someone?”

 

     And that’s how Akira tells you the story of someone trying to do the right thing, only for it to backfire like a high caliber cannon because of two horrendous adults, one suing, the other betraying him. The story leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and even though you know how most cases like that go about, and how small justice stands for someone so young facing a powerful politician, you can’t help but protest. “Why didn’t you speak up?” you ask Akira like it could be that easy. “You did nothing wrong!”

     Akira doesn’t look at you, his expression somewhat impassive. “Why should I? They wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I was branded a delinquent, so I played the role.”

     “Still, it’s so wrong,” you say as if Akira doesn’t know it himself. “And what’s up with your parents, just going with it and sending you away?”

     Akira shrugs, but he’s started kneading the back of his neck, clearly not wanting to talk more about them.

     “So my parents suck, and your parents suck,” you conclude, kicking pebbles around like a petulant child. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

     “Hmmm.” Akira’s hand falls back to his side, resting on the bench with its open palm facing you. You really want to press your thumb inside and see if the skin is soft or calloused. “I don’t know about my parents, but I’m pretty sure something can be done about yours,” he says.

     “Oh, pfff. Yeah.” You roll your eyes. “What do you youngsters say? Only ‘until Hell freezes over?’”

     Akira raises an eyebrow.

     “You know, it’s impossible. With my parents. And did you actually now that Dante has Hell frozen in his work? Cause he had balls. And knew heat rises. So it makes perfect sense for the deepest part of Hell to be freaking ice cold,” you add, rambling on and on to ignore how light you feel after telling him about your family, and even more that he’s trusted you with a little honesty of himself. Maybe it’s the only way to cope. A little sadness for a little sadness.

     “So not so impossible after all,” Akira remarks, smiling to himself like he’s just solved a secret.

     “You can give me a call once you’ve figured something out,” you say, and then add with a grin, “country boy.”

     Akira groans. “Please don’t.”

     “ _Country roads, Take me home_ ,” you start singing. Akira looks like he wants to strangle you. “ _To the place, I beLONG._ ”

     “Who’s behaving like an ass now,” Akira says, crumbling his leftover food paper back into a little ball. He throws it in the garbage bin a couple feet away from you, hitting bullseye. You whistle.

     “I gotta go back before Sojiro decides he won’t let me out at night,” Akira says, standing up and stretching his long limbs. “He may be nice to all my friends, but he’s going to hand me my ass if I don’t show my best side.”

     “I’m sure he just wants the best for you,” you say, standing up as well, stretching as well. Not looking at how the muscles in Akira’s arm strain when he pulls them high above his head.

     “Yeah,” Akira breathes, his face softening when he turns into the orange light of the lantern. “Probably.”

     “I want the best for you too, you know,” you mumble, poking his side with a loose fist. “So we’re going back to our regular schedule, and you can bet your ass I’m going to make you work on everything you’ve missed.”

     “Yeah,” Akira breathes again, this time smiling with his eyes as the skin around them crinkles slightly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 

 

     It’s good to be back, to return to your routine of going to Leblanc and enjoy some good quality coffee while watching Akira work on tasks you’ve deliberately made a little harder just to test how much smarter he really is than he lets on. So far, he hasn’t disappointed you, but you get the feeling it’s because he’s agreed to play your little game for now. So you decided to change tactics today, entering Leblanc with a stride that speak volumes of what you consider to be your victory. Akira is already waiting for you, but he’s not alone. On top of him him, another boy is pretty much _lying_ on him, one hand curled tight around Akira’s left wrist where Akira is holding something, the other propping his weight on the back of the seat. Akira is the first to notice you, and he stops his struggle against the other boy who uses that split moment of distraction to reclaim whatever Akira was holding in his hand, when he finally follows Akira’s eyes and looks at you and, _wow_ , you think, _that is Goro freaking Akechi jumping Akira’s bones._

     “You want me to come again once you’ve finished?” you ask. A quick glance to Sojiro for help tells you that he’s ignoring you all in favour of staying out of whatever bullshit Akira’s gotten himself into now. You could learn a lot from him.

     “This … this is not what it looks like,” Akechi quickly says, scrambling to his feet.

     “Honey, saying it like that makes it exactly look what it looked like,” Akira unhelpfully adds. Akechi throws him a quick nasty glare, then smooths the nonexistent creases out of his uniform and strides with as much dignity as he can maintain to the exit, giving you a bright, if forced smile. “If you excuse me.”

     You make room for his leave, slowly returning your gaze to Akira, who’s still half draped over the seat, and you try go ignore the stripe of skin showing where his shirt has shifted up.

     “You’re friends with the famous Junior Detective Prince?” you ask, closing the distance until you sit down opposite from him.

     Akira’s eyes wander to a spot above your head, then back to the notebook in front of him. “Something like that,” he says, and opens the notebook, signalling the end of this topic. Now that’s interesting, and totally none of your business, so you push it far away in your mind. Also, why doesn’t he call you Honey. Not that it matters. You hate pet names anyway.

     Just like you’ve expected, Akira needs a little more time to figure out the solution to the math equations, but he manages to come up with the right result using a completely different formula because apparently even the logics of mathematics succumb to Akira and act in this favour. No matter that, the sight of him think and fiddle with his pen, twirling it between his slender fingers and occasionally pushing the end against his lips is a good compensation for your loss this round. You just love looking at this hands, the very one Yusuke has used as reference to fill pages of his notebook, and you remember you read somewhere that beautiful hands are somewhat religious, worthy of worshipping. If this doesn’t speak Akira’s name, you don’t know what does.

     But you notice he’s working slower today than usual, mainly because he keeps looking at the door like he expects someone to come. Or maybe return, you realise, thinking back to how Akira’s free hand was splayed on the small of Akechis’ back.

 _Oh_ , you think, looking at the faint red finger marks on Akira’s left wrist. _Oh shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes folks, Akechi is here. I decided to integrate him a lot earlier into Akira's daily life, and some maybe can guess why.
> 
> Also yes. The red haired girl at the beginning is Kasumi. When I threw her into this story it was when the teaser just started coming out and we didn't have any info. Now we know more and imma tell you all right away, she won't be part of this story. But I’m already thirsty for her. She’s going to slay Akira like the Queen she is.
> 
> Also yes. It'll get juicy from now on.


End file.
